o 

5 


1  • 


Albin  Putzker 


LAVENDER  AND  OTHER  VERSE 


LAVENDER 
AND  OTHER  VERSE 

BY 

EDWARD  ROBESON 
TAYLOR 


PAUL  ELDER-&*  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 


Copyright,  IQIO 
By  EDWARD  ROBESON  TAYLOR 


Printed  by 

The  Stanley-Taylor  Company 
San  Francisco 


TO  MY  WIFE 

THIS  HARVEST  OF  MY  LATER  DAYS 
GATHERED  BENEATH  THY  WORDS  OF  PRAISE, 
AND  WHEN  THY  FOND,  IRRADIANT  SMILE 
BEAMED  ON  MY  LABORS  ALL  THE  WHILE, 
I  HUMBLY  LAY,  THOUGH  INCOMPLETE, 
BEFORE  THY  HEART  AND  AT  THY  FEET. 

E.  R.  T. 
SAN  FRANCISCO 
MAY  FIFTEENTH 
NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  TEN 


NOTE. — Many  of  these  poems  were  written  within 
very  recent  years  and  are  published  here  for  the  first 
time,  while  a  few  others,  including  some  of  the  trans 
lations,  were  published  in  "Moods  and  other  Verse" — 
a  volume  long  since  out  of  print.  Nothing  in  this 
book  will  be  found  in  "Selected  Poems" — a  volume 
published  in  1907.  Of  the  pieces  in  the  present  volume, 
"The  Visible  Beauty  of  the  World"  was  published  in 
the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine  for  June,  1906;  "The 
Gjoa  in  Golden  Gate  Park,"  in  the  Sunset  Magazine 
for  December,  1909;  "In  the  Potter's  Field  of  the  City 
Cemetery,  San  Francisco,"  in  the  San  Francisco 
Chronicle;  "The  Optimist"  in  the  San  Francisco 
Examiner;  and  "On  the  Death  of  Edward  Seventh" 
in  the  San  Francisco  morning  papers  of  May  2ist,  1910. 

The  translations  in  this  volume  are  reproductions 
of  the  originals;  that  is,  they  strictly  follow  the 
originals  in  matter  of  form  including  the  rhyme 
arrangement.  In  the  view  of  the  writer  no  verse 
translation  can  properly  be  deemed  such  unless  it 
accomplish  this.  No  literary  work  is  perhaps  so 
technically  difficult  as  the  turning  of  the  poetry  of 
one  language  into  poetry  of  the  language  of  another; 
for  not  only  must  the  form  be  maintained,  but  the 
very  essence  of  the  poetry  embodied  in  that  form, 
together  with  the  thought  in  all  its  nicety  and  strength. 
The  difficulties  hence  are  enormous,  and  perfect  suc 
cess  well  nigh  impossible. 


569469 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

MUSINGS  BY  THE  WAY 

Lavender           .....  i 

The  Visible  Beauty  of  the  World       .           .  2 

An  Autumn  Field       ....  3 

The  Gjoa  in  Golden  Gate  Park           .           .  4 

In  the  Potter's  Field             ...  5 

Dawn            ......  6 

A  Day  with  Music     ....  7 

Meditation    ......  8 

On  Tamalpais  at  Sunrise     .           .           .  9 

Defeat           ......  10 

With  Memory  .....  n 

A  Psalm  of  Victory         .  .  .  .12 

The  Old,  Old  Days    ....  14 

To  Andree's  Pigeon         .  .  .  .15 

To  the  Ox                    .           .           .           .  16 

To  an  Albatross    .           .           .           .           •  17 

I  Bide  My  Time         ....  18 

Night  and  Day      .  .  .  .  .21 

The  Work  of  the  Poet         .           .           .  21 

Endeavor  I             .....  22 

Endeavor  II      .....  23 

Service          ......  24 

At  the  Funeral  Service  of  a  Young  Man  25 
Gethsemane            .           .           .           .           .26 

Calvary   ......  27 

Onward  28 


ETCHINGS 

The  Poet           .....  31 

The  Composer        .           .           .           .  .32 

The  Violinist    .....  33 

The  Orator             .           .           .           .  .35 

The  Painter       .  36 

The  Sculptor          .           .           .           .  •       37 

The  Surgeon     .....  38 

The  Bibliophile  to  His  First  Edition  of 

Chapman's  Homer            •           •           •  39 

The  Picture  Connoisseur            .           .  .40 

Youth      ......  41 

An  Aged  Man        .           .           .           .  .42 

The  Penitent     .....  43 

The  Religious  Ascetic      .           .           .  -44 

The  Miser         .....  45 

Business       ......       46 

The  Homicide  .....  47 

The  Thief 48 

The  Pessimist  .....  49 
The  Optimist          .....       50 

SONNETS  SUGGESTED  BY  PAINTINGS 
OF  WILLIAM  KEITH 

The  Joy  of  Earth       ....  53 

The  Twilight  Time          .  .  .  .54 

The  Meadow     .....  55 

The  Mystic  Pool   .....       56 
The  River      ....  .57 


SONNETS  SUGGESTED  BY  PAINTINGS  OF 
WILLIAM  KEITH— Continued. 

A  Vision      ......  58 

Evensong           .....  59 

Prayer           ......  60 

Lachryma  Montis        .           .           .           .  61 

SOME  LEAVES  OF  BAY 

To  Burns     ......  65 

Scott        ......  67 

On  Pope's  Translation  of  Homer        .           .  72 

To  Walter  Savage  Landor  ...  73 

Walt  Whitman       .....  74 

Poe 75 

To  Whittier  I        .  .  .  .  .76 

To  Whittier  II             ....  77 
To  a  Soiled  and  Broken  Volume  of  Bayard 

Taylor's  Poems        ....  78 

On  the  Death  of  Mark  Twain             .           .  79 

To  Lloyd  Mifflin         ....  80 
George  Sterling      .           .           .           .           .81 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard     ...  82 

Professor  Joseph  Le  Conte  at  Yosemite       .  83 

On  the  Death  of  Edward  VII        .           .  84 

HARRO 87 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

Hymn  to  the  Sun       .           .           .           .  95 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  FRENCH— 

Continued. 
The  Orchard  .  .  .  .  .98 

What  Is  Heard  on  the  Mountain  .  103 

The  Tomb  and  the  Rose  .  .  .108 

The  Pelican       .....  109 

The  Poet      .  .  .  .  .  .     in 

Jacques   ......  112 

Fifty  Years  .  .  .  .  .115 

Adieu      .  .  .  .  .  .  117 

Farewell  to  Life    .  .  .  .  .118 

To  a  Dead  Poet          ....          120 

Solar  Hercules       .....     121 

The  Condor's  Sleep    .  .  .  .  122 

The  Evening  of  the  Battle        .  .  .124 

Murmurings  in  the  Darkness          .  .  126 

The  Axe  .  ...     128 

On  a  Statue  by  Constantin  Meunier  of  a 

Mine's  Old  Horse  .  .  .          129 


MUSINGS  BY  THE  WAY 


LAVENDER 

Of  all  the  lovely  names  the  flowers  bear 

None  softlier  beats  upon  the  ear  than  thine, 
Sweet  Lavender;  while  thou  in  Memory's  mine 
A  jewel  art  beyond  description  fair: 

How  oft  our  mothers  gave  thee  tenderest  care 
For  thy  dear  blossoms;  what  a  far-drawn  line 
Of  household  fragrancies  have  borne  thy  sign; 
What  precious  stuffs  have  breathed  thy 
perfume's  air! 

And  I  remember  on  an  afternoon 
Beholding,  as  an  unexpected  boon, 
Thy  hallowed  purple  where  a  Poet  lies. 

Oh,  bloom  forever  there,  nor  let  abate 

The  love  for  him  who  sang  in  deathless  wise 
The  clouds  adventuring  through  the  Golden 
Gate. 


Edward  Pollock's  "Evening"  is,  of  all  his  work,  the  poem 
most  admired  by  San  Franciscans.     The  first  two  lines  are: 

"The  air  is  chill,  the  day  grows  late, 
And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate." 


THE  VISIBLE  BEAUTY  OF  THE  WORLD 

This  golden  bloom,  this  great-armed,  towering  tree, 
This  azure  sky  with  billowy  clouds  of  white, 
Yon  mount  in  robe  of  amethyst  bedight, 
This  brook  whose  silver  cleaves  the  emerald  lea, 

To-day  seem  so  miraculous  to  me, 

That  all  the  senses,  with  celestial  might, 
Put  dark-browed  thought's  unquiet  brood  to 

flight, 
And  steep  themselves  in  being's  ecstasy. 

The  visible  beauty  of  thy  world,  O  Lord, 
Touches  at  times  the  spirit-sounding  chord 
Which  beats  to  music  of  revealing  strain; 

And  then,  far  borne  on  faith-created  wings, 
We  dare  to  feel  that  we  divinely  gain 
Some  deeper  knowledge  of  the  soul  of  things. 


[2] 


AN  AUTUMN  FIELD 

Beneath  the  sun  this  Field  all  restful  lies, 

Bathed  in  the  golden-tinted,  mellowing  rays, 
The  children  nourished  through  its  laboring  days 
Now  fled  to  answer  hunger's  ceaseless  cries. 

Torn  was  its  bosom  in  most  cruel  wise, 

The  cold  rains  smote  it,  and  the  sunshine's 

blaze, 

While  toiled  it  on  until  the  grateful  praise 
Of  ripened  grain  shook  all  the  harvest  skies. 

And  now,  in  undisturbed,  sufficing  rest 

Soft  steals  through  all  its  veins  serene  repose, 
While  every  breeze  exhilarates  its  breast  — 

Like  some  great  hero,  by  his  country  blest, 
Who,  brow-enlaurelled,  at  his  labor's  close 
Lies  couched  where  Peace  through  all  his  being 
flows. 


[3] 


THE  GJOA  IN  GOLDEN  GATE  PARK 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

With  the  sloop  "GJOA"  Capt.  Roald  Amundsen  made  the 
Northwest  passage  in  1905,  arriving  at  San  Francisco  in 
October,  1906;  and  now  the  vessel  has  been  given  to  that 
City  for  preservation  in  Golden  Gate  Park. 

At  last  I  rest  in  peace  where  nevermore 

The  waves  shall  whip  my  stout-resisting  side; 
Ignobly  rest,  and  swell  with  bitter  pride 
As  casual  eyes  all  lightly  scan  me  o'er  — 

Me,  that  have  dared  the  Arctic's  awful  shore, 
And  with  the  bold  Norwegian  as  my  guide 
Sailed  the  dread  Pass  to  other  keels  denied, 
Where  we  shall  dwell  with  Fame  forevermore. 

Ah,  it  is  pleasant  here  with  birds  and  trees, 
With  laughter-loving  children,  and  the  sea's 
Keen  winds  that  romp  upon  my  orphaned  deck; 

Yet,  mid  this  fatal  peace  at  times  I  yearn 
To  face  again  the  dangers  of  a  wreck, 
To  see  once  more  the  great  Aurora  burn. 


[4] 


IN  THE  POTTER'S  FIELD  OF  THE  CITY 

CEMETERY  SAN  FRANCISCO 

NOW  TO  BE  TURNED  INTO  A  PARK 

The  wind  blows  keen  from  off  the  ocean's  breast 
Where  springtime  grasses,  done  with  living,  lie 
Low  on  these  graves,  that  list  no  human  sigh 
For  those  who  there  all  unregarded  rest  — 

Each  nameless  one  the  City's  wayworn  guest, 
Who  long,  beneath  Misfortune's  sullen  sky, 
Strove,  till  he  could  no  more  his  woes  defy, 
Then  fell  to  death  unheeded  and  unblest. 

But  soon  the  cypresses  will  grip  the  bones 
Of  these  lorn  dead,  and  on  their  bodies  feed 
To  bid  them  live  anew  in  branch  and  leaf; 

And  children  here,  in  merry-making  tones, 
All  things  of  happiness  will  gaily  breed, 
Nor  know  that  under  them  roll  seas  of  grief. 


[5] 


DAWN 

Now  radiant  Dawn  unlocks  her  roseate  doors, 
Whence  all  her  featly-footed,  swarming  band 
Streams  swift  along  the  sleep-encompassed  land, 
And  in  the  sky  on  fiery  pinion  soars. 

The  pauseless  glory  sweeps  by  moaning  shores 
Where  storm's  poor  victims  strew  the 

shuddering  strand, 
While  from  the  heights  where  trees  rejoicing 

stand 
It  through  my  lady's  window  softly  pours. 

And  as  the  fulgent  beams  grow  still  more  bright, 
Man  flees  the  lures  and  glamours  of  the  Night, 
To  meet  with  fresh  resolve  the  new-born  Day  — 

That  sphinx  which,  seated  in  the  anxious  breast, 
With  scornful  lips  of  stony  silence,  may 
Extinguish  all  our  hopes  or  make  us  blest. 


[6] 


A  DAY  WITH  MUSIC 

The  morning  moved  us  to  the  ocean-shore, 

Where  stretched  at  ease  in  tranquil  joy  we  lay, 
Watching  the  breakers'  near,  incessant  play, 
And  stirred  by  music  of  their  thunderous  roar. 

Then  deep  Beethoven's  grand,  symphonic  lore 
Enchained  the  sequent  hours  of  the  day, 
While  evening  saw  great  Verdi's  lighter  sway 
Rule  our  obedient  hearts  as  ne'er  before. 

O  miracle,  in  such  brief  span  to  be 

Far  borne  on  Music's  multitudinous  waves, 
Which  roll  triumphant  over  Death's  vast 
graves ! 

Life-breathing  waves,  inimitably  free, 

Divine,  eternal;  while  upon  their  breast 
The  universe  itself  is  rocked  to  rest. 


MEDITATION 

Be  up  and  doing !  —  In  this  time  of  steam 
Let  not  one  moment  pass  unlaboring  by; 
On  these  electric,  wide-spread  pinions  fly 
To  where  alone  the  stars  of  Action  beam. 

Dear  Poet,  leave  thy  phantom  land  of  Dream, 
Where  lazy  clouds  all  idly  pace  the  sky,* 
As  Fancy's  fairies  in  the  coverts  lie, 
To  watch  with  thee  some  naiad-haunted  stream. 

Thou  many-tongued,  immitigable  voice, 

With  mine  own  soul  I  would  in  quiet  be, 
Till  Silence  medicine  my  wounded  ear; 

Then  with  the  heart  of  things  shall  I  rejoice, 
The  true  realities  divinely  see, 
And  deathless  harmonies  enraptured  hear. 


*"When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air." 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  2,  Scene  2. 


[8] 


ON  TAMALPAIS  AT  SUNRISE 

Impatiently  we  watched  the  patient  Day 
Await  the  coming  of  her  lover  bright, 
Until  he  burst  on  our  rewarded  sight 
In  splendor's  opulence  of  cloud-array. 

Before  us  spread  the  beauty-breathing  Bay, 
With  its  unconquered  City,  glory-dight, 
And  verdured  hills  which  trembled  in  the  light 
Above  the  vales  where  Dawn  still  dimly  lay. 

And  as  we  drained  the  golden  cup  of  Morn 
My  dear  one's  face  so  fondly  radiant  shone, 
That  Rapture's  children  swarmed  in  every  air. 

Oh,  then  it  seemed  that  Love  was  newly  born, 
And  that  all  nature  we  had  made  our  own, 
Our  deep,  immeasurable  joy  to  share. 


DEFEAT 

Who  dares  to  be  defeated  by  defeat 
Already  herds  with  the  ignoble  dead, 
As  with  his  bowed  and  shame-confessing  head 
He  seeks  the  land  where  great  hearts  never 
meet  — 

The  land  where  Ease  inglorious  makes  her  seat, 
And  where  the  coward  soul,  from  Virtue  fled, 
Sees  from  afar  the  wings  of  battle  spread, 
With  valor  breasting  death  in  joy  complete. 

No  righteous  cause  is  ever  lost  till  those, 

Who  should  have  borne  it  to  the  crested  height, 
Faint  from  defeat,  no  longer  struggle  on. 

E'en  then  'twill  live,  for  they  who  scorn  repose 
Shall  rouse  themselves,  and  with  consuming 

might 
Raise  high  the  banner  of  a  newer  dawn. 


[10] 


WITH  MEMORY 

'Tis  memory  steers  me  as  my  boat  drifts  by 
The  banks  with  blossoms  prodigally  gay, 
While  far  and  near  with  many  a  carolling  lay 
The  mating  songsters  fill  the  earth  and  sky. 

Here  let  me  stop,  and  'neath  this  old  elm  lie, 
Where  boyhood's  moments  passed  like  dreams 

away, 

And  once  more  watch  the  sun's  expiring  ray 
Light  the  cows  homeward  from  the  pasture 
nigh  .... 

Their  tinkling  bells  die  out  along  the  lane; 
The  gloaming  slowly  deepens  into  night, 
And  mid  the  darkness  Memory  flits  from  me. 

Would  she  had  stayed;  and  yet  the  Present's  pain 
Has  been  forgotten  in  her  sweet  delight 
Beneath  these  stars  which  tell  of  days  to  be. 


A  PSALM  OF  VICTORY 

'Tis  true  the  queenliest  eye  will  fade, 
The  mightiest  voice  sink  faint  and  low, 
And  every  sweet  that  man  can  know 
In  leaves  of  bitterness  be  laid; 

The  glass  that  brimmed  for  us  alone 
Be  emptier  than  an  idiot's  brain, 
And  even  Memory  seek  in  vain 
The  scenes  where  Life's  great  pearls  were 
sown. 

Then  be  it  so,  as  sure  it  must, 
Shall  we  then  ring  the  curtain  down? 
Shall  we  the  feast  no  longer  crown, 
And  on  our  hopes  but  sprinkle  dust? 

It  shall  not  be;  the  day  is  ours, 
With  all  its  moments  to  enjoy, 
And  though  our  gold  bears  some  alloy, 
And  withered  be  our  loveliest  flowers, 

Still  bravely  let  us  do  and  dare, 
With  Music  in  our  heart  of  heart, 
Content  to  do  our  little  part 
To  ease  our  brother's  heavy  care. 

[12] 


We  are  not  young,  we  are  not  old; 
Our  years  are  all-sufficing  years 
For  duty's  wealth,  for  sorrow's  tears, 
And  for  the  heart's  unminted  gold. 

If  we  but  will,  the  larks  shall  bide, 
The  dawn  e'er  greet  us  with  a  smile, 
And  every  star  befriend  us  while 
The  dragons  all  their  horrors  hide. 

Then  raise  the  flags,  though  tattered  they, 
At  head  of  our  devoted  line, 
And  marching  under  skies  divine 
A  glory  make  of  every  day. 


THE  OLD,  OLD  DAYS 

O  golden-hearted,  richly-hallowed  days 
That  loom  through  deepening  mists  on 

memory's  shore, 

When  boyhood  fed  from  joy's  unmeasured  store 
As  hope  sang  loud  her  sweetest  roundelays! 

How  romped  we  in  the  wood's  far-opening  ways 
When  irksome  studies  for  the  time  were  o'er; 
How  plied  we  games  in  their  abounding  lore, 
How  felt  as  gods  when  victory  led  to  praise! 

The  Master's  strenuous  voice  ceased  long  ago, 
While  few  of  all  that  throng  on  earth  can  be, 
And  these  are  burdened  with  the  weight  of 
years; 

Yet  on  that  fruitful  spot  still  others  glow 

With  youthful  fire  and  sport  the  same  as  we, 
Undreamt  the  future's  struggle  and  its  tears. 


[14] 


TO  ANDREE'S  PIGEON 

IN  THE  ARCTIC  OCEAN,  80°  44'  NORTH,  20°  20'  EAST. 
JULY  16,  1897. 

No  voice  but  thine,  O  ill-requited  bird, 

Has  come  to  tell  of  mighty-souled  Andree, 

Since  that  uniquely  memorable  day 

His  polar  voyaging  the  whole  world  stirred; 

And  as  on  sheltering  mast — thy  flight  deterred 
By  cold  and  weariness — thy  body  lay, 
Wrapped  in  the  dreams  of  home-cote  far  away, 
Man  gave  thee  death  for  thy  recorded  word. 

Thy  master  sailed  into  the  depths  unknown 
Along  the  paths  no  human  wing  had  beat, 
And  fell  with  frozen  plume,  no  more  to  rise; 

While  he  and  thou,  as  Fame  is  proud  to  own, 
Have  added,  with  transplendency  complete, 
A  new  Aurora  to  the  Arctic  skies. 


Since  the  above  was  written  news  has  come  which  indicates 
that  Andree  and  his  party  were  killed  by  natives. 


[15] 


TO  THE  OX 

I  see  thee  standing  firmly  as  an  oak, 
In  contemplation  of  the  field  and  sky, 
With  resignation  in  thy  plaintive  eye, 
Though  thy  broad  back  has  felt  full  many  a 
stroke ; 

And  though  thy  mighty  neck  beneath  the  yoke, 
Day  after  day,  that  passed  unvarying  by, 
Has  bowed  and  strained  until  the  stars  were 

nigh 
Since  labor-rousing  Dawn  the  hills  awoke. 

Helper  of  man,  true  brother  of  the  soil, 

That  hast  with  him  the  paths  of  progress  made 
Through  wildernesses  trembling  with  surprise; — 

Great  symbol  thou  of  Patience  and  of  Toil, 
To  whom  earth's  children  have  such  homage 

paid 
That  Poets  lift  thee  to  immortal  skies. 


[16] 


TO  AN  ALBATROSS 

(AT  THE  ACADEMY  OF  SCIENCES  SAN  FRANCISCO) 

Magnificent  in  death  thou  liest  here, 

As  though  still  left  some  remnant  of  thy  pride 
When  thy  great  wings,  now  folded  to  thy  side, 
Bore  thee  through  ocean's  air  without  a  peer. 

Thou  couldst  not  wish,  at  end  of  thy  career, 
A  nobler  tomb  than  this  wherein  to  bide: 
Here  Science  reigns,  and  here  thou  wilt  be  eyed 
In  all  thy  beauty  year  on  passing  year. 

Yea,  thou  belong'st  to  that  high-fortuned  few, 
That  by  the  Poet's  paradisal  dew 
Perennial  live  in  Memory's  jewelled  hall; 

For  now  we  list  the  Mariner's  deathless  tale, 
His  wonder-peopled  seas  once  more  we  sail, 
To  find  at  last  that  Love  is  all  in  all. 


[17] 


"I  BIDE  MY  TIME" 

(SEE  THE  STORY  ENTITLED  "THE  WAITING  HAND"  IN  THE 
JULY,  1909.  NUMBER  OF  THE  CENTURY  MAGAZINE.) 

I  bide  my  time;  though  heart-wrung  tears 
Flow  through  my  slow,  unfruitful  years, 
And  in  my  breast  the  weeds  of  ill 
Produce  soul-numbing  poison,  still 
I  bide  my  time. 

When  first  I  saw  thy  form  it  seemed 
Thou  wast  the  one  of  whom  I'd  dreamed — 
The  peerless  Prince  whose  love-lit  eyes 
But  shone  for  me; — Now  sadly  wise 
I  bide  my  time. 

Ah,  this  was  when  the  bloomy  Spring 
Made  all  my  heart-bells  madly  ring; 
And  lo!  I  freeze  mid  winter  snows; — 
Yet  as  the  darkness  deeper  grows, 
I  bide  my  time. 

My  being's  boundless  wealth  I  gave 
To  thee  who,  fool  as  well  as  knave, 
Made  mock  of  it,  then  tombed  it  where 
No  one  e'er  comes  except  despair  .... 
I  bide  my  time. 


[18] 


The  sunset's  gold  thine  eye  surveyed 
Thy  hand  upon  the  canvas  laid; 
But  now  behold — oh,  heavy  loss! — 
Instead  of  it  mere  gilded  dross  .... 
I  bide  my  time. 

Thine  Art  is  gone:  a  golden  stream 
Has  drowned  it  with  thy  every  dream; 
Ay,  even  thy  soul  is  rotting  there 
Beyond  all  hope;  and  so  with  care 
I  bide  my  time. 

A  foul  and  triple  murder  thine 
In  taking  her  base  love  for  mine: 
Thou  slewest  then  my  helpless  heart, 
Thy  soul,  and  thy  devoted  Art  .... 
I  bide  my  time. 

For  months  I  waited  by  the  tree, 
The  faintest  glimpse  to  catch  of  thee; 
Thou  wouldst  not  come;  but  though  has  set 
Hope's  every  radiant  sun,  still  yet 
I  bide  my  time. 

The  hand  that  lay  so  oft  in  thine 
With  promised  ring  that  ne'er  was  mine 


Shall  even  in  death  the  road  attest 
That  brought  thee  to  my  panting  breast . . . 
I  bide  my  time. 

The  countrymaid,  whose  crown  thou  took'st 
In  passion's  sport,  and  then  forsook'st 
To  wallow  deep  in  lucre's  mire, 
Proclaims  with  hell's  eternal  ire, 
I  bide  my  time. 

And  it  will  come:  when  thou  art  most 
The  devil's  own,  my  vengeful  ghost 
Shall  slay  thee  in  the  sight  of  men, 
Who  spurn  thy  lifeless  form; — till  then 
I  bide  my  time. 


[20] 


NIGHT  AND  DAY 

The  waves  of  Night  dashed  over  me 
With  such  tempestuous  roar  and  roll, 
It  dazed  all  sense  that  such  a  sea 
Could  rise  to  whelm  the  struggling  soul. 

But  when  the  Day,  led  in  by  Dawn, 
With  hope  and  promise  radiant  shone, 
I  found  the  murderous  billows  gone, 
And  all  the  air  with  rainbows  sown. 


THE  WORK  OF  THE  POET 

The  Poet's  tissue,  woven  but  of  dreams 
Beneath  Imagination's  starry  beams, 
Transplendent  hangs  in  Art's  eternal  sky, 
While  empires  fall  and  creeds  outlasted  die. 


[21] 


ENDEAVOR 


Still  am  I  tossed  upon  a  troubled  sea, 

Puzzled  and  doubting  how  to  make  my  way; 

Resultless  day  follows  resultless  day, 

And  even  my  dreams  no  solace  bring  to  me. 

At  Duty's  call,  unheeding  other  plea, 

Have  I  pushed  forward,  scornful  of  delay, 
Ne'er  yielding  once  to  indolence's  sway, 
Nor  grieving  over  what  might  never  be. 

And  now,  the  years  seem  shorter  as  they  run, 
Nor  dares  my  life  to  hope  for  many  more, 
Or  should  they  come,  that  they  will  truly  bless. 

The  best  that  lay  within  me  has  been  done; 
And  as  an  end  all  vainly  I  deplore 
Endeavor's  dreary  waste  of  fruitlessness. 


[22] 


ENDEAVOR 

II 

Thou  wavering  soul,  what  note  is  this  to  sound? 
Dost  prate  of  Duty,  yet  art  satisfied 
With  what  thou  hast  in  scarce  half-struggle 

tried? 

Dost  beat  thy  wings  against  thy  self-made 
bound, 

Forgetful  that  in  Life's  unresting  round 
All  marvellously  wondrous  things  abide 
For  him  who  seeks  and  will  not  be  denied, 
And  that  the  humblest  may  not  go  uncrowned? 

O  blinded  one,  unhood  thy  spirit's  eyes, 

So  they  may  truly  see  the  world  without, 
And  that  still  other  world  which  stirs  within; 

Then  canst  thou  mount  above  complaint's  vain 

cries 

To  heights  undarkened  by  the  clouds  of  Doubt, 
Where  Victory  waits  to  make  thee  of  her  Kin. 


[23] 


SERVICE 

Why  weakly  pine  for  that  the  years  refuse 
Their  heaping  bounty  we  so  vainly  dare 
To  claim  as  ours;  why  all  reluctant  bear 
The  Cross  whose  eloquence  forever  sues; 

Why  slay  the  winged  hours  because  the  clews 
Of  Life  lead  not  to  mystery's  hidden  lair; 
Or  why  so  steeped  in  poison  of  despair 
Thou  findest  nothing  for  thy  strength  to  use. 

O  doubting  soul!  within  thyself  alone 

Exhaustless,  saving  riches  thou  mayst  own, 
Where  hope-enweaponed  thou  canst  smile  at 
fears ; 

Where  Service  waits  to  take  thee  by  the  hand, 
And  as  she  leads  thee  through  her  wonderland 
Thou  then  shalt  learn  the  blessedness  of  tears. 


[24] 


AT  THE  FUNERAL  SERVICE  OF 
A  YOUNG  MAN 

About  the  urn  which  held  his  remnant  clay 
The  friends  he  loved  had  placed  appealing 

bloom : 

The  altar's  candles  lit  its  mystic  gloom, 
Wherein  a  solemn  hush  deep-brooding  lay; 

The  organ  spake  in  heart-constraining  way, 
And  song  and  prayer  that  trembled  with  his 

doom 

Uprose  deep-toned,  while  all  the  sacred  room 
Pulsed  in  the  sifted  sun's  declining  ray. 

The  saintly  man  the  great  Epistle  read 

As  though  St.  Paul  himself  were  standing  there 
Mid  exhalations  of  celestial  air; 

While  sweet  Religion  all  our  footsteps  led 

Along  the  paths  of  stress  and  grief  to  where 
The  fount  of  Peace  eternally  is  fed. 


[25] 


GETHSEMANE 

Thou  Mount  of  Olives,  what  a  crown  is  thine, 
In  splendor  growing  since  that  night  when  He, 
Within  thy  lonely,  gloomed  Gethsemane, 
Besought  His  Father's  will  in  prayer  divine. 

The  bitter  cup,  Renunciation's  wine 

Would  fill  to  brimming  at  the  fatal  tree, 

He  nerved  his  soul  to  drain,  nor  cared  to  see 

Aught  but  the  f ulgence  of  the  heavenly  sign . . . 

O  Lord,  on  this  thy  crucifixion's  day, 

At  thy  pierced  feet  in  humbleness  we  pray 
That  we  our  own  Gethsemanes  may  bear; 

That  thy  great  message  we  may  newly  scan, 
And  in  the  bosom  of  thy  boundless  care 
Learn  what  it  is  to  love  our  fellow-man. 


CALVARY 

When  wavering  Pilate  gave  his  fatal  doom, 
Jesus,  to  every  agony  resigned, 
Bore,  while  the  thorns  around  his  head 

entwined, 

His  cross  through  mocking  crowds  and 
thickening  gloom. 

Before  the  woe-worn  eyes  of  her,  to  whom 
He  owed  the  life  he  now  anew  should  find, 
His  scourged  and  tortured  body  they  consigned 
To  that  dread  tree  they  hoped  would  be  his 
tomb  .... 

Thou  flower  of  souls,  with  message  all  divine, 
What  unexampled  fortune  has  been  thine — 
The  victim  of  thy  friends  as  of  thy  foes: 

For  on  the  cross  of  Creed  and  Dogma  they 

Nail  Thee  till  man,  mid  hate-engendered  woes, 
Can  find  Thee  not  upon  his  anguished  way. 


[27] 


ONWARD 

O  sad-beseeming  Earth,  what  flowers  are  thine, 
Through  what  dark  glooms  thy  stars  of  glory 

shine, 
What  radiant  altars  beckon  us  to  prayer! 

What  myriad  voices  chorus  the  divine, 

Whose  winged  strains  the  doubting  soul  upbear 

To  gaze  entranced  on  Faith's  eternal  sign! 

Who  then  shall  cast  his  precious  burden  down, 
Obedient  to  the  demons  of  despair, 
In  very  sight  of  his  immortal  crown? 


[28] 


ETCHINGS 


THE  POET 

(FOR  HERMAN  SCHEFFAUER  ON  HIS  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA 
IN  MAY,  1909.) 

Sceptred  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  Kings 
He  wanders  with  insatiate,  curious  gaze, 
Pausing  anon  to  build  melodious  lays, 
Then  dreaming  once  again  with  folded  wings; 

He  seeks  the  utmost  heart  and  soul  of  things 
Which  fill  all  nature's  palpitating  ways, 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  of  golden  days 
Mounts  where  the  voice  eternal  ever  sings. 

Such  is  the  Poet,  whose  immortal  song 
Has  shaken  every  century  of  time, 
Making  what  seemed  the  common  all  sublime. 

Scheffauer,  thou  art  of  this  irradiant  throng, 
And  as  thou  seekest  now  another  clime, 
I  give  thee  this — thou  singer  true  and  strong. 


THE  COMPOSER 

My  brain  is  surging  with  tremendous  things 
Whose  visions  touch  the  top  of  my  desire, 
Where  Art  stands  waiting  with  supernal  fire, 
And  every  voice  with  golden  accent  rings. 

To  that  far  height,  upborne  on  radiant  wings, 
My  spirit  shall  in  ecstasy  retire, 
Till  breathes  within  the  bosom  of  my  lyre 
A  glory  nectared  from  immortal  springs  .... 

At  last!  At  last! — Ah,  list  the  cheers  on  cheers! 
Oh,  how  I've  yearned  for  this  these  long,  long 

years- 
Years  that  have  heard  full  many  a  fatal  hiss; 

And  now  to  feel  that  I  am  Music's  own 

And  Fame's  forever,  bathes  my  soul  in  bliss, 
And  seats  me  on  a  more  than  mortal  throne. 


[32] 


THE  VIOLINIST 

Above  thy  strings,  my  Stradivarius  dear, 
My  spirit  hovers  on  the  wings  of  dream, 
Wherein,  mid  heavenly  ecstasies,  I  seem 
Divinely  ordered  harmonies  to  hear; 

Apollo's  troop  my  quivering  fingers  steer, 
Till  issues  forth  such  pure,  melodial  stream 
From  thy  deep  soul,  that  Orpheus'  self  might 

deem 

Thy  strains  were  borne  from  some  celestial 
sphere. 

Thou  precious  instrument,  as  in  the  case 
Thy  throbbing  form  in  tenderness  I  place, 
I  feel  anew  the  miracle  thou  art — 

Thou  pigmy,  giant  one,  whose  lover's  hand 
Can  bid  thee  roam  the  palace  of  the  heart, 
And  at  thy  will  its  smiles  or  tears  command. 


[33] 


THE  ORATOR 

His  eye  seems  flashing  with  unwonted  fire, 
His  body  quivers  with  emotion's  throes, 
The  while  his  passion  all  sublimely  grows 
Till  every  heart  responds  to  his  desire. 
What  mighty  causes  has  his  winged  ire 

Lifted  to  heights  beyond  the  reach  of  foes! 
What  jewelled  phrases  gem  his  speech  like 

those 

Born  on  the  bosom  of  the  poet's  lyre! 
He  pictures  danger  as  a  glorious  feast; 
And  when  Demosthenes'  fierce  thunder 

ceased, 
"To  arms!  To  arms!"  the  roused  Athenians 

cried; 
So,  when  our  Fathers  dreamed  they  might  be 

free, 

Henry  and  Adams  on  their  flaming  tide 
Bore  them  to  Liberty's  unbounded  sea. 


[34] 


THE  ORGANIST 

How  solemn  all;  the  sun's  last  glimmering  ray 
Illumes  the  pane  where  glows  our  dear  Lord's 

head, 

As  now  the  organ's  breath  is  gently  sped 
In  seeming  requiem  for  the  parting  day. 

No  one  is  here,  not  even  to  rest  or  pray, 
Except  the  spirits  of  the  saintly  dead, 
Who  bring  memorial  gifts,  and  sweetly  shed 
The  balm  of  peace  upon  me  as  I  play. 

Since  death  seized  her, — my  life's  unclouded  sun, — 
This  wonder-hearted,  myriad-throated  one 
Holds  me  in  Music's  chains  as  ne'er  before; 

And  oftentimes  my  soul  is  made  aware 
Of  harmonies  that  infinitely  soar 
Beyond  the  earth  and  all  the  earth's  despair. 


[35] 


THE  PAINTER 

You  do  not  like  this  gorgeous,  flaming  sky 

Wherewith  I've  robed  the  form  of  dying  day; 
So  strained  and  so  extravagant,  you  say, 
That  Nature's  best  with  it  could  never  vie. 

Then  gaze,  and  gaze,  and  find  the  reason  why 
Art  justifies  the  glories  of  her  way: 
She  decks  the  old  with  newly-bright  array, 
And  lifts  the  hidden  to  the  wondering  eye. 

Art  is  not  imitation;  who  can  hope 

In  paint  with  sunlight's  dazzling  beams  to  cope 
And  did  achievement  bless  him  it  were  vain. 

True  Art  interprets:  craves  the  soul  of  things, 
Then  binds  the  captured  thought  in  Beauty's 

chain, 
And  sends  it  forth  on  Form's  imperial  wings. 


[36] 


THE  SCULPTOR 

A  Lady  once  bewitched  my  youthful  sight, 
Whose  beauty  in  the  greatest  bred  despair — 
Her  face  Madonna  like,  simple  her  air, 
And  yet  with  every  majesty  bedight. 

And  now  this  piece  of  Parian  seems  so  right, 
So  pure  and  flawless,  that  I  fain  would  dare 
Her  marble  effigy  to  fashion  there, 
While  Art  befriends  me  with  its  golden  light. 

My  Lady's  figure  lies  within  this  stone; 

Release  it  thence  I  must,  and  proudly  own 
The  smile  refused  me  in  her  earthly  days. 

That  pregnant  thought,  great  Angelo,  is  thine; 
Oh,  frown  not,  Master,  that  I  seek  thy  praise. 
Or  for  a  moment  link  thy  name  with  mine. 


[37] 


THE  SURGEON 

In  Anesthesia's  arms  the  patient  lies 
Unmindful  of  the  cruel,  kindly  knife, 
While  helpers  stand  anear  with  interest  rife, 
And  expectation  dancing  in  their  eyes. 

The  Surgeon  then,  cool,  confident,  and  wise, 
Cuts  resolutely  deep  where  weakening  life 
Has  waged  with  its  dread  foe  unequal  strife 
Until  he  makes  the  venomous  thing  his  prize. 

A  conqueror  he,  with  monsters  in  his  train 

To  their  most  hidden  coverts  tracked  and  slain, 
Their  victim's  lips  aflame  with  songs  of  praise. 

His  conquests  bear  no  weight  of  orphans'  tears, 
But  sweet  Beneficence  upon  them  lays 
Her  gentle  hand  through  all  his  laurelled  years. 


[38] 


THE  BIBLIOPHILE  TO  HIS  FIRST 
EDITION  OF  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 

At  last  within  my  hands  thy  joys  I  see, 

Thou  precious  Chapman,  Shakespeare  might 

have  eyed, 
Which  I  for  long  had  sought  both  far  and 

wide ; 

And  now  with  radiant  face  thou  com'st  to  me! 
The  binders  have  been  merciful  to  thee; 

Prince  Henry's  picture  glows  with  pristine 

pride; 

Thy  very  flyleaves  still  with  thee  abide, 
While  every  text  from  wound  or  stain  is  free. 
And  as  delightedly  mine  eyes  engage 

The  stars  of  poesy  which  blaze  thy  page, 
I  think  of  him  Apollo  greatly  souled; 
Who,  when  he  quaffed  the  nectar  of  thy  lay, 
On  sonnet  wing  sought  out  "the  realms  of 

gold," 
And  set  a  flower  there  which  blooms  alway. 


[39] 


THE  PICTURE  CONNOISSEUR 

Look  at  my  Mauve  picked  up  this  very  day 
At  auction  sale  where  none  its  value  knew — 
Mauve  who  in  life  known  only  to  the  few 
Now  with  a  fame  Time  never  will  betray. 

Note  how  the  lights  and  shades  harmonious  play; 
See  the  rich  color  every  form  endue; 
Breathe  its  clear  air,  then  feel  Spring  could 

not  sue 
For  fairer  spot  to  wanton  on  her  way. 

My  choice  is  wide  as  life:  no  man  or  school 
Can  sound  the  chords  of  all  that's  beautiful, 
Nor  claim  as  theirs  the  vasty  fane  of  Art; — 

And  yet  a  Rembrandt  once  mine  eye  did  own, 
Till  fled  abashed  the  children  of  my  heart, 
While  he  in  matchless  grandeur  stood  alone. 


[40] 


YOUTH 

With  head  erect,  and  proud,  outswelling  breast, 
We  see  him  start  upon  his  lifelong  race; 
The  Gods  to  him  have  given  alluring  grace, 
And  every  voice  adds  joyance  to  his  zest. 

Ambition  urges  him  to  some  far  crest 

Where  devils  lurk,  while  hopes  each  other  chase 
Through  bloom-bespangled  fields,  whose 

gorgeous  face 
Conceals  the  dragon's  brood  as  yet  unguessed. 

How  fast  he  goes!     What  barriers  break  away 
Before  the  impact  of  his  strenuous  day; 
What  cheer-swept  banners  wave  above  his  head! 

Now  manhood  grandly  looms,  and  all  seems  well; 
But  ere  its  toiling  labors  have  been  sped 
What  tales  of  agony  its  years  may  tell! 


AN  AGED  MAN 

Time  was  I  leaped  and  bounded  like  the  roe, 
When  boyhood's  blood  ran  blithesome  in  the 

veins, 

While  in  my  breast  Hope  held  the  radiant  reins, 
As  Life  plunged  onward  in  resplendent  show. 

Now  note  my  shuffling  gait,  so  slow,  so  slow; 
No  sound  I  hear,  nor  feel  but  torturing  pains, 
While  my  scarred  body,  bent  and  stiffened, 

strains 
In  agony  against  its  weight  of  woe. 

O  state  most  wretched!     Wheresoe'er  I  gaze 
I  do  but  see  the  ghosts  of  other  days, 
Whose  chains  tear-rusted  they  upon  me  bind. 

Yet,  I  would  live;  great  God,  to  thee  I  cry; 
I  ask  but  life  till  I  am  wholly  blind; 
Oh,  make  me  feel  I  am  not  now  to  die! 


[42] 


THE  PENITENT 

Oh,  I  have  sinned  till  all  my  life  seems  one 
Lone  desert-waste  of  every  hideous  thing, 
Where  misery-breeding  gloom  outspreads  its 

wing, 
Nor  leaf  nor  blossom  sees  the  blessed  sun. 

I  dare  not  name  the  deeds  which  I  have  done; 
But  as  they  pass  before  mine  eyes  they  fling 
Their  horrors  in  my  face,  until  they  wring 
A  torture  from  me  Hell  itself  would  shun. 

Penance  I'll  do  if  even  to  drink  the  tears 
Of  memory's  angels  for  unnumbered  years, 
And  be  with  scorpions  scourged  for  eons  more. 

Father  of  all,  condemn  me  to  the  worst, 
If  at  the  last  on  seraph's  wings  I  soar 
To  where  thy  heavenly  splendors  on  me  burst. 


[43] 


THE  RELIGIOUS  ASCETIC 

Why  should  I  glut  this  carnal  frame  of  mine, 
Of  every  lustful  thing  the  source  and  seat; 
Why  try  with  bath  and  balm  to  make  it  sweet, 
Or  clothe  it  with  apparel  soft  and  fine? 

Ah,  no!  I  must  all  thought  of  it  resign, 
Except  to  rack  it  with  tormentings  meet, 
Until  abased  beneath  my  conquering  feet 
It  can  obscure  no  glimpse  of  the  divine. 

I  clasp  this  skull  as  in  the  dust  I  pray, 
And  thrill  to  feel  how  swiftly  flees  away 
The  body  man  would  deck  and  make  so  fair; 

While  in  my  dreams  my  fleshless  spirit  wings 
Through  all  the  boundless  vastitudes  to  where 
Seraph  on  seraph,  rapture-throbbing,  sings. 


[44] 


THE  MISER 

How  slowly  drag  the  leaden-footed  hours 
Along  the  ways  of  revel-breeding  night, 
To  hold  me  from  the  glutting  of  my  sight 
On  that  whereto  my  soul  delighted  cowers. 

Silence  falls  deep;  at  last  the  time  is  ours, 

Thou  precious  hoard,  when  by  my  candle's  light 
Unseen  I  shall  again  behold  thy  bright, 
Unutterably  beauteous  minted  flowers. 

My  heart  stands  still  as  now  my  fingers  pass 
Caressingly  through  all  thy  glittering  mass, 
With  knowledge  that  it  swells  still  more  and 
more. 

Oh,  I  am  hungered,  but  I  would  not  dare 

To  take  one  piece  from  thy  appealing  store — 
Instead  I'll  drop  these  hard-earned  pennies  there. 


[45] 


BUSINESS 

A  demon  he  of  ever  restless  mien 

Who  scorns  the  wooing  angels  of  repose, 
To  follow  fast  the  money-stream  which  flows 
To  wastes  where  ruined  souls  gloom  every 
scene. 

With  ruthless  hoofs  he  tramples  down  the  green 
As  on  and  on  with  pauseless  pace  he  goes, 
Still  ever  treating  as  his  deadliest  foes 
The  higher  things  that  dare  to  intervene. 

The  Ledger  is  the  book  of  books  for  him, 
Its  figures,  saints,  with  whom  he  feverous 

makes 
His  daily  journey  round  a  dollar's  rim. 

Of  glorious  visions  never  he  partakes, 

And  strange  to  him  the  countless  host  of  Art 
That  yearn  to  make  a  palace  of  his  heart. 


[46] 


THE  HOMICIDE 

True,  true  he's  dead;  so  surely  dead  the  sound 
Of  crashing  worlds  could  not  one  pulse  awake; 
The  waves  of  happy  life  no  more  will  break 
Upon  the  breast  where  gapes  my  dagger's 
wound. 

He  drove  me  to  it:  had  he  not  been  bound 
To  scorn  of  me  who  lived  but  for  her  sake, 
And  had  her  beauty  not  have  been  the  stake, 
My  steel  his  heart's  recesses  had  not  found. 

How  long  she'll  wait  for  his  embrace,  how  long! 
I  cannot  brave  her  with  these  hands  of  blood, 
Nor  frame  my  lips  the  needed  lie  to  tell.  .  .  . 

O  fatuous,  irremediable  wrong, 

That  courses  through  me  as  a  fiery  flood, 
Bearing  the  seeds  which  blossom  but  in  hell! 


[47] 


THE  THIEF 

You  ask,  your  Honor,  what  he  has  to  say 
Why  he  should  not  receive  your  last  decree, 
And  he  is  silent;  for  it  cannot  be 
But  that  the  verdict's  right  in  law's  strict  way; 

But  think  of  his  environment,  we  pray; 
Think  of  the  fruit  of  his  ancestral  tree 
In  crimes  as  foul  as  eye  might  dare  to  see, 
Which  those  before  him  fed  on  day  by  day. 

O  wretched  youth,  such  knowledge  bids  us  feel 
'Twas  in  your  very  bones  that  you  should  steal, 
And  murder  even  for  sufficient  cause. 

O  God  of  all  the  thunders,  why  impose 
On  helpless  man  immitigable  laws 
That  brim  his  being  with  tremendous  woes? 


[48] 


THE  PESSIMIST 

What  are  these  struggling,  bestial-minded  men 
But  ravening  beasts,  that  hunger-tortured  prey 
Upon  each  other,  blackening  all  the  day 
With  deeds  that  spring  from  Hell's  malicious 
ken. 

We  stumble  on  from  fen  to  noisome  fen; 

Death,  myriad-sworded,  hews  his  slaughterous 

way 

Through  Nature's  hosts,  while  no  consoling  ray 
Illumes  one  cell  in  earth's  vast,  darksome  den. 

Some  unimaginable  demon  must, 

In  very  wantonness  of  boundless  lust, 
Have  filled  Life's  every  urn  with  blood  and 
tears. 

Oh,  strange  it  is,  that  humankind  still  bear 
The  agonizing  fruitage  of  the  years, 
With  comrades  none  save  misery  and  despair. 


[49] 


THE  OPTIMIST 

O  Life,  of  thee  I  never  have  a  fear: 

No  matter  where  thou  tak'st  me  I  am  thine, 
For  in  my  soul  I  feel  some  power  divine 
Bear  me  along  from  year  to  mellowing  year. 

In  every  storm  the  nymphs  of  Peace  appear; 
Round  every  grief  the  arms  of  Mercy  twine; 
Sweet  Service  holds  aloft  her  blazoned  sign, 
And  smiling  Hope  is  shrined  in  every  tear. 

Then  take  me  Life,  and  let  my  eager  soul 
Submit  with  gladdening  joy  to  thy  control, 
Until  Achievement  lifts  its  radiant  head; 

And  though  it  be  not  as  the  heavens  high, 
Who  dares  to  doubt  that  with  the  good  'tis 

fed, 
And  lustrous  shines  in  the  eternal  eye. 


[50] 


SONNETS  SUGGESTED  BY  PICTURES 
PAINTED  BY  WILLIAM  KEITH 


THE  JOY  OF  EARTH 

Who  doubts  the  earth  speaks  audibly  unto 
The  heart  of  everyone  that  lists  to  hear, 
Setting  its  beats  to  music?     If  to  thee  not  clear 
Her  ceaseless  note  that  rings  beneath  the  blue; 

Or  hast  thou  never  been  impelled  to  woo 

Her  beauty-glowing  forms,  nor  sought  her  ways, 
I  pray  thee  on  this  breathing  picture  gaze, 
That  Art  may  give  thee  all  thy  soul's  best  due: 

For  here  Earth  seems  with  radiant  joy  to  say, 
Behold  the  children  born  in  love  to  me — 
These  lush,  deep  grasses  where  the  blossoms 

play, 
This  murmuring  stream,  this  wide-embracing 

tree, 

Where  birds  may  live  their  little,  tuneful  day, 
And  golden  harvests  that  are  yet  to  be. 


[53] 


THE  TWILIGHT  TIME 

The  Sun  that  raged  victorious  through  the  day, 
Like  conquering  monarch  scornful  of  defeat, 
Behind  the  hills  in  unrestrained  retreat 
With  pauseless  haste  now  speeds  upon  his  way, 

He  conquers  still:  these  clouds  proclaim  his  sway, 
That  lace  refulgently  the  lucent  blue, 
And  this  lone-wandering  moon  with  crescent 

new 
Begins  to  glow  with  his  reflected  ray. 

The  grasses  tanned  by  summer's  breath,  the  trees, 
The  distant  crag  a  battlement  that  seems, 
Lie  in  the  arms  of  silence  and  of  rest. 

The  feverous  day  is  done;  night's  galaxies 

Hold  yet  aloof;  in  this  mid-time  what  dreams 
In  tranquil  mystery  pulse  through  all  the  breast. 


[54] 


THE  MEADOW 

To-day  the  soaring  mount  is  not  for  me, 

Though  it  should  marshal  all  its  loveliest  mass, 
Or  though  across  my  tempted  vision  pass 
Its  utmost  witchery  of  rock  and  tree; 

For  this  lush  meadow  holds  my  heart  in  fee, 
Where  clouds  lie  sleeping  in  its  pool's  clear 

glass, 
And  where  in  comradeship  with  flower  and 

grass 
No  other  friend  than  Revery  shall  be. 

The  Mountain  trumpets  with  imperious  voice, 
And  great  Ambition  sits  enthroned  there 
With  spoils  that  blaze  in  fever-laden  air; 

But  thou,  sweet  Meadow,  bidst  the  soul  rejoice 
In  love  of  lowly  and  familiar  things, 
And  lead'st  the  way  to  Peace's  crystal  springs. 


[55] 


THE  MYSTIC  POOL 

The  flaunting  banners  of  imperious  Day 

Have  all  been  folded  out  of  sense  and  sight, 
Where,  in  this  ancient  wood,  star-nurtured  Night 
With  silence-wreathed  sceptre  holds  her  sway. 

The  Moon  new  risen  throws  such  tender  ray 
Across  this  mystic  pool,  in  Fancy's  flight 
We  see  Selene  clasp,  with  fresh  delight, 
Endymion  to  her  breast  till  morning's  gray. 

Within  this  wood  there  must  be  many  a  sprite 
The  Poet  loves,  and  many  a  blithesome  fay 
To  lead  imagination  to  his  heart; — 

Oh,  grant  he  finds  them  in  the  world's  despite, 
That  with  their  magic-working  help  he  may 
Uprear  some  deathless  pyramid  of  Art. 


[56] 


THE  RIVER 

Since  from  my  deep-embosomed  spring  I  flowed 
I  have  come  far — still  singing  all  the  way 
In  face  of  night  as  in  the  face  of  day, 
And  feeling  nought  but  joysomeness  for  goad. 

Upon  my  breast  the  kindly  stars  have  sowed 

Their  golden  seed;  I  catch  the  sun's  warm  ray; 
I  list  the  leaves'  and  birds'  delightful  lay, 
While  myriad  creatures  make  me  their  abode. 

And  yonder  cloud  that  flecks  the  sunset  sky 
In  unimaginable  glory  I, 
Lured  by  the  day's  great  lord,  gave  to  the  air; 

While  onward  to  the  ocean's  welcoming  shore, 
Enriched  by  gifts  I  pauseless  wend,  and  there 
My  bounty's  wealth  immeasurably  pour. 


[57] 


A  VISION 

Sweet  Morn  trips  lightsomely  along  the  sky, 
Awakening  earth  and  all  the  things  of  air, 
Whose  trees,  joy-hearted,  murmurous  greetings 

bear 

To  the  far  lake  and  bloom-gemmed  grasses 
nigh. 

Some  pigeons,  snowy-white,  encircling  fly 

Above  two  maidens, — loveliest  creatures  there, — 
Who  send  their  dreams  on  voyage  calm  and 

fair, 
To  Love's  own  harbors  that  resplendent  lie. 

O  blessed  Morn! — Thy  wealth  no  garish  day 
In  heartless  mock  can  ever  take  away, 
Nor  these  fond  doves  to  ravening  ravens  turn. 

O  fortunate  maidens! — Alien  to  all  tears, 

Your  beauty  shall  not  fade,  but  brighter  burn, 
To  consecrate  your  Vision  to  the  years. 


[58] 


EVENSONG 

Day's  glare  and  noise  are  done  for  you  and  me; 
Its  dying  glories  tremble  in  the  west; 
The  stars  are  near,  and  Evening's  tranquil  rest 
With  balmy  softness  fills  the  wood  and  lea. 

Deep-shaded  lies  the  pool's  untroubled  breast 
Near  where  the  shepherdess,  full  fair  to  see, 
Walks  with  her  sheep  as  gently  sighing  she 
Builds  fairy  dreams  of  him  beloved  the  best. 

And  as  the  twilight  slowly  draws  anear, 

What  all-pervading  tones  we  seem  to  hear 
Bearing  the  moments  of  the  dying  day; 

For  Nature's  harmonies  are  mounting  high 
In  vesper  hymn  against  the  fading  sky, 
To  blend  with  spirit  voices  far  away. 


[59] 


PRAYER 

Each  thing  seems  here  subdued  to  silent  prayer; 
The  clouds  hang  moveless  in  the  sombre  sky, 
The  brook  scarce  whispers  as  it  ripples  by, 
And  stilled  are  all  the  pulses  of  the  air. 

The  stately  trees  a  fading  splendor  wear, 

As  now  the  westering  sun's  last  gleamings  die 
Around  a  man,  who  views  with  saintly  eye 
The  vast  distresses  that  his  fellows  bear. 

What  countless  problems  on  this  Prophet  weigh, 
As  mid  the  myriad  mysteries  of  it  all 
Within  this  temple  he  is  fain  to  pray! 

Here  babbling  laughter  flees  beyond  recall, 
While  Grief,  sore  stricken  with  the  pangs  of 

years, 
Seems  bending  low  above  a  bowl  of  tears. 


[60] 


LACHRYMA  MONTIS 

Why  shouldst  thou  weep,  dear  mount,  so  fair  all 

lies, 
From  spring's  first  blush  to  winter's  last  sad 

days, 
Thy  blooms  so  beauteous  that  they  seem  to 

raise, 
As  if  in  prayer,  their  petals  to  the  skies? 

And  yet  this  Lake,  in  amethystine  guise 
Of  calm,  untroubled  beauty,  men  emblaze 
As  thine  own  tear,  delighting  thus  to  praise 
Its  loveliness  in  sweet,  poetic  wise. 

From  off  the  ocean,  with  its  neighboring  roar, 
The  legions  of  the  fog  resistless  pour, 
And  conquering  settle  on  thy  flanks  and  head; 

But  this  is  joy  and  recompense  divine, 

For  with  this  compensation  thou  art  fed, 
That  ocean's  tears  are  mingled  then  with  thine. 


[61] 


SOME  LEAVES  OF  BAY 


TO  BURNS 

Thou  wast  of  truest  flesh  and  blood: 
Thy  veins  ran  hot  with  passion's  flood; 
Thou  knewest  the  stars — and  miry  mud — 

But  all  sincerely; 
And  so  the  world,  as  well  it  should, 

Loves  thee  most  dearly. 

All  nature's  kin  was  kin  of  thine; 
The  earth  for  thee  was  all  divine; 
Nor  did'st  thou  need  from  Heaven  a  sign 

To  love  thy  brothers, 
Nor  wouldst  thou  measure  with  thy  line 

The  faults  of  others. 

'Tis  true  thy  satire's  lash  did  smite 
The  tender  spot  of  many  a  wight; 
But  though  thy  blow  was  never  light, 

It  meant  no  evil; 
Indeed,  thou  didst  not  do  despite 

E'en  to  the  Devil. 

And  yet  thy  bosom  nursed  a  hate 
For  bigotry  that  would  not  bate; 
For  aught  that  bound  thy  fellow's  fate 
To  tyrant  burdens, 


Or  barred  him  from  his  just  estate 
Of  worthy  guerdons. 

The  lowliest  ones  that  breathe  the  air 
Could  catch  thy  thought  and  feel  thy  care, 
And  nestling  in  thy  heart  find  there 

Unselfish  giver, 
Till  winged  with  song  their  flight  shall  bear 

Still  on  forever. 

Thy  artless  strain,  how  rich  and  strong! 

How  full  of  all  the  joys  of  song! 

How  round  the  heart  its  children  throng 

To  leave  us  never! 
How  scornful  of  the  meanly  wrong, 

Yet  loving  ever! 

Why  should  we  note  thy  fitful  years, 
Remorseful  pangs,  repentant  tears, 
Or  sigh  that  Fate  had  used  her  shears 

Untimely  on  thee? 
'Tis  nought,  when  blessed  Love  appears 

Fore'er  to  crown  thee. 


[66] 


SCOTT 

Read  at  celebration  of  the  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
seventh  anniversary  of  his  birth,  held  by  the  United 
Scottish  Societies  of  San  Francisco,  August  14,  1908. 

O  Mother  Earth,  how  good  thou  art, 
Thou  and  the  Powers  that  rule  in  thee; 
How  wide  embracing  thy  vast  heart, 
How  deep  thy  deep  divinity. 

The  countless  blooms  the  sun  adores, 
And  all  the  myriad  trees  are  thine, 
With  streams  that  woo  the  seas,  and  ores 
That  sleep  with  gems  in  rock  and  mine, 

The  soaring  peaks  enwrapped  in  snows, 
And  mothered  by  the  bending  skies, 
With  peaceful  vales  whose  soft  repose 
Folds  into  rest  the  world's  harsh  cries. 

And  good  thou  wast  to  set  apart 
The  land  on  every  lip  to-night, 
That  thrills  our  every  heart  of  heart, 
And  glows  magnificently  bright — 

The  land  of  science,  art  and  song, 
Of  passion  for  the  nobly  right, 

[67] 


Of  men  and  women  brave  and  strong, 
Of  sons  embathed  in  fadeless  light — 

The  sons  that  lead  material  things 
Through  blossomy  ways  to  moral  ends, 
And  on  imagination's  wings 
With  farthest  stars  become  as  friends. 

And  one  of  these  the  world  has  praised 
Beyond  all  wealth  of  honor's  lot, 
Till  Fame  with  fondest  hand  has  blazed 
His  name — the  name  of  Walter  Scott. 

What  infinite  things  were  his  to  see 
With  unfatigued,  far-ranging  eye; 
What  world-enchanting  gift  had  he 
To  dress  with  life  what  passed  him  by! 

The  very  ground  beneath  his  feet 
Seemed  pulsing  with  unwonted  breath, 
While  every  bush  he  chanced  to  meet 
Held  fairy  tribes  unknown  to  death. 

The  mountain  spake  to  him,  the  moor, 
The  brae,  and  burn  that  leaped  along, 
Nor  could  there  be  a  thing  so  poor 
That  might  not  hope  to  swell  his  song. 

[68] 


Life,  life  he  felt  in  every  vein, 
And  life  he  saw  in  every  scene, 
Abundant,  throbbing,  though  his  strain 
Be  weighted  oft  with  note  of  teen. 

The  minstrelsy  of  other  days 
Sang  to  his  heart  with  living  voice, 
And  many  a  tale  of  olden  ways 
He  framed  to  make  the  world  rejoice. 

Imagination  led  him  o'er 
The  fairest  fields  of  gay  Romance, 
Where  ladies  and  their  knights  outpour 
Their  hearts  mid  flash  of  sword  and  lance; 

And  where  beneath  the  conjurer's  sway 
The  silent  dust  of  long-tombed  men 
Stirs  with  fresh  life  to  newer  day, 
And  proudly  lives  on  earth  again. 

Battle's  dread  trump  he  fiercely  fills 
To  blare  it  to  the  trembling  sky, 
And  who  so  dull  but  that  he  thrills 
At  Marmion's  last  expiring  cry; 

Or  who  so  dyed  in  peace's  hue 
That  cannot  feel  his  blood  run  fire, 

[69] 


When  Saxon  James  and  Roderick  Dhu 
Tug  to  the  death  with  hate's  desire; 

Or  when  the  proud  Mac-Ivor,  borne 
Toward  all  the  torturing  tools  of  death, 
Stood  grandly  mid  his  hopes  uptorn, 
And  gave  King  James  his  latest  breath. 

Yet  love  and  tenderness  he  bound 
About  the  heart  of  women  fair, 
And  Jeanie  Deans,  by  him  encrowned, 
Can  Time  and  all  his  minions  dare. 

So  Constance,  in  the  hall  of  doom 
Through  passioned  love's  untoward  ill, 
Shall  fill  with  light  her  living  tomb, 
And  in  her  radiance  queen  it  still. 

But  oh,  how  idle  to  recount 
The  stars  that  blaze  in  Scott's  great  sky, 
E'en  though  my  Muse  could  breathless  mount, 
And  on  unwearying  pinions  fly. 

Not  his  to  build  great  towers  of  gloom 
Till  Life,  with  all  its  wonder,  palls, 
Or  bid  psychology  have  room 
In  Fiction's  vast,  palatial  halls; 

[70] 


Or  set  some  writhing  problem  there 
To  bestialize  the  ways  of  art, 
Or  on  a  poisoned  pen's  point  bear 
The  dregs  and  offal  of  the  heart; 

But  he  content  to  purely  tell 
The  stories  coursing  through  his  brain, 
Where  living  men  and  women  dwell 
Each  age  on  age  to  entertain. 

The  Muses  blest  him  at  his  birth, 
And  with  melodious  accent  said, 
Before  thy  shrine  the  sons  of  earth 
Shall  stand  with  bowed,  uncovered  head. 

How  toiled  and  moiled  this  noble  soul, 
This  gentleman  of  high  degree, 
Without  apparent  aim  or  goal, 
Yet  bound  for  immortality. 

Sharp  sorrows  pierced  him  when  the  years 
Should  have  been  kind  with  peace  and  rest, 
But  not  for  him  complaint  or  tears 
As  on  he  went  with  dauntless  breast — 

On  and  still  on  through  seas  of  debt 
That  rolled  in  mountains  by  his  side, 


And  which,  though  age  and  grief  were  met, 
Could  not  abate  his  matchless  pride. 

The  Muse  may  point  to  kinglier  names 
Emblazoned  on  her  golden  roll, 
But  well  she  knows  that  on  it  flames 
No  manlier  man,  no  greater  soul. 

The  heather-bell  may  bloom  no  more, 
The  Tweed  itself  run  bare  and  dry, 
But  Fame  proclaims  it  o'er  and  o'er 
That  Walter  Scott  shall  never  die. 


ON  POPE'S  TRANSLATION  OF  HOMER 

Pope  could  not  translate  Homer,  so  you  say; 
But  tell  me  who  of  all  the  rest  could,  pray, 
Or  who  will  ever  bend  that  mighty  bow. 
Yet  lines  of  his  roll  on  in  thunderous  roar, 
And  his  winged  words  the  empyrean  soar, 
In  scorn  of  others  crawling  far  below. 


[72] 


TO  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Landor,  thou  art,  in  truth,  the  one  unique: 
A  Briton,  yet  a  Roman  and  a  Greek, 
And  still  no  less  Italian;  in  all  time 
Breathing  ambrosial  airs  of  every  clime; 
Who  all  the  spoils  of  all  the  ages  stored, 
And  drew  such  honey  from  thy  heaping  hoard, 
That  all  the  Muses  crown  thee  with  their 

bays 
Fadeless  throughout  thy  fame-besplendored  days. 

A  lettered  Titan,  thou,  so  greatly  great, 
Thou  sittest  throned  in  high,  imperial  state, 
Like  some  immortal  God  that  keeps  his  place 
In  lonely  grandeur  of  unconquered  space, 
With  none  so  venturesome  as  dare  dispute 
His  rule  as  being  less  than  absolute, 
And  who,  impregnably  contented,  knows 
That  on  the  centuries  he  shall  repose. 


[73] 


TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Thou  roughest-hewn  of  all  the  poet  kind! — 
Not  thine  to  tinkle  rhyme's  melodious  bell, 
Nor  set  to  music  of  harmonious  swell 
The  thoughts  which  surged  within  thy 
shoreless  mind. 

Not  these  could  Art  to  lightest  durance  bind, 
Nor  sensuous  Beauty  with  her  deepest  spell 
Entice  them  in  her  fair  demesne  to  dwell; 
But  formless,  ruleless  they  as  unconfined. 

Yet,  giant  soul,  thy  loud-resounding  lyre, 
Whose  tones  the  wondering  world  still 

leans  to  hear, 
Thrills  every  spirit  that  would  dare  to  be 

Inflamed  with  that  unique,  that  quenchless  fire, 
Which  made  thee  what  thou  wast — the 

grandest  seer 
And  noblest  poet  of  Democracy. 


[74] 


POE 

He  walked  beneath  the  raven's  wing 
A  wayward  child  in  lightless  gloom, 
And  there  his  trancing  songs  did  sing 
And  weave  his  haunting  tales  of  doom. 

He  drank  from  Beauty's  honey-cup, 
Pressed  to  his  eager  lips  by  Art, 
Until  her  nectar  swallowed  up 
The  very  substance  of  his  heart. 

Upon  these  lines  his  structures  grew, 
In  form  most  cunningly  designed, 
While  demons  whom  he  nurtured  slew 
The  peace  and  sweetness  of  his  mind. 

With  hopeless  sighs  and  bitter  tears 
He  filled  his  dark,  remorseful  hours, 
Yet  reared  the  while,  for  all  the  years, 
His  beauty-crowned,  enchanted  towers. 


[75] 


TO  WHITTIER 


Some  verse  there  is  death  cannot  touch  although 
It  may  not  nest  upon  the  loftiest  height, 
To  spread  its  pinions  in  untiring  flight 
Where  constellations  in  resplendence  glow; 

Nor  yet  by  Fancy  fondly  fellowed  know 
Her  fairy  realms  of  exquisite  delight; 
Nor  with  Imagination's  stopless  might 
Range  the  vast  regions  of  our  bliss  and  woe; — 

For  it  hath  cradled  in  the  human  breast 

The  lowly  things  wherefrom  we  would  not  part; 
And  hath  in  loving,  saving  strength  possessed 

The  power  to  move  the  universal  heart, 
And  so  will  be  by  all  the  muses  blest 
As  long  as  joys  shall  sing,  or  tears  shall  start. 


[76] 


TO  WHITTIER 

II 

Such  verse,  O  Whittier,  thy  muse  employs: 
For  thou  dost  sing  in  unaffected  lay 
Of  maidens  fair,  of  childhood's  radiant  day, 
Of  natural  things  unmixed  with  base  alloys; 

Dost  mint  the  gold  which  lies  in  homely  joys, 
And  gently  mov'st  in  such  consummate  way 
The  human  heartstrings  to  harmonious  play, 
That  restful  music  drowns  the  world's  mad 
noise. 

New  England  lives  in  thy  delightful  line: 
There  do  her  household  hearths  our  love 

constrain ; 
There  do  her  tales  with  newer  beauty  shine, 

Her  fields,  her  woods,  her  skies,  her  stormy  main; 
While  over  all  the  Power  we  feel  divine 
Upholds  eternal,  universal  reign. 


TO  A  SOILED  AND  BROKEN  VOLUME 
OF  BAYARD  TAYLOR'S  POEMS 

Come,  wandering  one,  to  my  embrace; 

With  gentlest  touch  I  shall  erase 

All  soilure  from  thy  pretty  face, 

Shall  tear  away  the  faded  dress 

That  mars  thy  pristine  loveliness, 

And  bid  the  binder  clothe  anew 

Thy  beauteous  form,  and  there  bestrew, 

With  hand  by  loving  taste  controlled, 

His  daintiest  flowers  of  gleaming  gold. 

Then  shall  I  gladly  house  thee  where 

The  best  of  all  thy  kinsmen  fare, 

And  where  thine  author  e'en  would  say 

Thou  hadst  at  last  not  gone  astray. 

There  shalt  thou  have  such  tender  care 

The  bitter  past  will  be  forgot; 

And  oft  to  thee  shall  I  repair, 

To  thrill  beneath  thy  glowing  thought; 

To  follow  thee  at  leisure  times 

For  art-grown  pearls  in  distant  climes; 

To  have  the  sluggish  feelings  stirred 

By  many  a  music-singing  word, 

And  mount  with  thee  on  lyric  wings 


[78] 


Above  the  touch  of  sordid  things. 
Ah,  then  how  happy  shall  I  be 
At  thought  of  having  rescued  thee! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MARK  TWAIN 

His  waves  of  laughter  rolled  around  the  world, 
And  ever  shall  though  he  be  dead; 

In  vain  the  conqueror  Death  has  madly 

hurled 

His  spear  against  that  noble  head, 
For  drowned  in  mirth  immortal,  he, 
Despairing,  yields  the  victory. 


[79] 


TO  LLOYD  MIFFLIN  ON  RECEIVING 
FROM  HIM  A  COPY  OF  HIS 
"FLOWER  AND  THORN" 

Thou  art  the  child  of  that  beloved  Keats, 

Whose  name  in  water  writ  flows  not  away, 
But  fixed  in  Fame's  own  brass  shall  still 

outstay 
Even  the  mightiest  in  their  mighty  seats. 

The  humblest  thing  thy  brooding  vision  meets 
Puts  on  through  thee  empurpled,  rich  array, 
And  every  season,  day  by  halcyon  day, 
Thine  open  soul  with  newer  wonder  greets. 

Together  we  have  walked  this  many  a  year, 
Thy  strains  Parnassian  beating  on  mine  ear, 
Till  crystal  fountains  gushed  within  my  heart. 

Who  doubts  the  Muse  triumphant  scorns  all  fear, 
As  now  her  children  with  consummate  art 
Her  stately  palaces  divinely  rear. 


[80] 


GEORGE  STERLING 

The  multitudinous,  vast  orbs  which  keep 

Their  pride  of  grandeur  in  the  night-bound  sky, 

Within  his  ample  breast  like  children  lie 

Mid  winged  words  that  all  their  spaces  sweep; 

And  there  weird  fancy  piles,  in  heap  on  heap, 
Amazing  jewels,  till  the  startled  eye 
Faints  at  the  sight;  and  there  sweet  blossoms 

cry 
With  ecstasy  for  him  their  souls  to  reap. 

O  Poet  by  Balboa's  sapphire  sea, 

What  thunderous  waves  of  thought  must  roll 

to  thee, 
To  break  in  music  on  thy  heart's  wide  shore! 

What  many-chambered  caves  of  silence  where 
Imagination  spreads  her  golden  lore, 
To  tell  of  heights  which  souls  like  thine  may 
dare! 


[8!] 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 

Who  could  forget,  once  having  fitly  heard, 
The  tender  cadence  of  his  voice  of  gold, 
Or,  having  read  him,  could  be  uncontrolled 
By  the  sweet  music  of  his  lyric  word? 

Life's  clamorous  voices,  mammon-hearted,  stirred 
No  pulse  in  him — his  heart  the  happy  fold 
Of  gentle  things  which,  shaped  in  fancy's 

mould, 
Poured  out  their  joys  as  blithely  as  a  bird. 

His  body  rests  where  he  would  have  it  rest: 
Where  blooms  and  grasses  whisper  o'er  his 

breast 
Far  from  the  noise  and  tumult  of  the  town; 

And  who  can  doubt  the  Muse  oft  ponders  there, 
To  keep  afresh  the  jewels  of  his  crown 
Till  Fame  shall  take  them  in  eternal  care. 


[82] 


PROFESSOR  JOSEPH  LE  CONTE  AT 
YOSEMITE,  JULY  4-6,  igoi 

"If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'Twere  now  to  be  most  happy." 

Othello,  Act  2,  Scene  I. 

His  hoary  head,  lustrous  with  all  that's  best 
Of  human  kind,  by  fame  immortal  made, 
In  death's  last  agony  he  fitly  laid 
Upon  Yosemite's  titanic  breast. 

For  years  their  mutual  love  had  been  confessed, 
And  when  once  more  her  glories  he  surveyed, 
His  raptured  heart  such  ecstasies  betrayed, 
Fate  dared  not  tempt  him  further  to  be  blest. 

Her  beauteous  leaves  of  cedar,  oak  and  pine, 
She  lavish  gave  for  garlands  to  entwine 
His  coffin  fashioned  from  her  teeming  store; 

And  'neath  the  reverent  gaze  of  her  great  walls, 
While  throbbed  in  muffled  tones  her  saddened 

falls, 
His  clay,  star-lighted,  left  her  evermore. 


[83] 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD  SEVENTH 

All  England's  far-spread  empire  weeps  to-day 
O'er  that  imperial  head  death  would  not 

spare, 

And  we  Americans  are  proud  to  share 
Our  tears  with  them  and  let  our  words  have 

way. 

In  his  capacious  breast  Life  joyed  to  play 
With  infinite  desire,  while  tactful  care 
His  steersman  was,  with  regal  sense  to  bear 
Him  safely  through  the  seas  of  Yea  and  Nay. 
To  his  dear  land  he  fetched  the  Golden  Fleece 
Of  reconcilement,  bidding  hates  to  cease 
Whose  dangerous  fires  for  years  had 

smouldered  on. 

O  England,  in  thy  stress,  when  every  hour 
Demands  the  utmost  reach  of  all  thy  power, 
How  much  thou'lt  miss  his  wisdom  now  he's 
gone! 


HARRO 


HARRO 

SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN  COAST. 
FEBRUARY,  1895. 

The  waves  leapt  fierce  and  high 
Beneath  cloud-blackened  sky, 
And  raging  winds  tore  by 

The  ship  that  staggered  on, 
While  blinding  sleet  fell  there, 
From  out  the  freezing  air, 
Upon  her  bosom  where 

Hope  seemed  forever  gone. 

And  now  the  seas  dash  o'er 
Her  deck's  defenseless  floor, 
And  more  and  ever  more 

She  gasps  and  pants  for  breath; 
While,  worn  with  weary  strain, 
Her  desperate  men  attain 
Her  rigging,  there  to  gain 

What  seems  but  slower  death. 

But  hope  now  thrills  their  breast, 
For  o'er  the  billows'  crest 
The  life-boat  speeds,  attest 

Of  selfless  souls  that  dare; 
And  every  man  finds  place 
Within  her  crowded  space 

[87] 


Save  one,  whose  helpless  case 
Seems  all  beyond  their  care. 

Then  Harro  ran  to  meet 
The  boat  with  flying  feet, 
And  cried,  with  joy  complete, 

"All?  All?  Ye  have  saved  all?"- 
"All,  Captain,  all  but  one, 
And  he  so  high  had  run 
Upon  the  mast,  that  none 

Was  equal  to  the  call." 

At  this  he  smote  his  head, 
And  with  sad  sternness  said, 
"  'Tis  woe  that  those  I've  led 

Should  fail  in  duty's  hest!     .    . 
Now  let  but  four  agree 
To  try  yon  wreck  with  me, 
And  that  lone  wretch  shall  be 

With  life  divinely  blest." 

"Comrade,  in  vain  thy  plea, 
Too  heavy  runs  the  sea." 
"Then  I  alone,"  said  he, 

"Will  venture  on  the  deed." 
"Not  so,"  upstarted  four, 
"If  thou  but  lead,  once  more 

[88] 


Well  through  these  billows  bore, 
Despite  all  coward  rede." 

"Harro,  my  only  boy, 
Do  not  all  hope  and  joy 
Within  my  breast  destroy," 
His  tearful  mother  cried; 
"The  sea  runs  higher  still, 
And  great  as  is  thy  skill, 
And  stout  thy  strength  and  will, 
It  cannot  be  defied. 

"Our  duty's  charge  by  none 
More  nobly  has  been  done; 
And  as  for  that  poor  one 

So  lonely  left,  he's  gone; 
'Tis  sure  we  cannot  know 
That  he  still  lives,  and  so 
The  truest  might  forego 

What  thy  fond  wish  is  on. 

"Thou'rt  all  that's  left  to  me: 
Thy  brother  Uwe,  he 
Went  from  me,  and  the  sea 

Most  like  has  been  his  grave; 
And  thy  dear  sire  doth  sleep 
Entombed  within  the  deep, 

[89] 


Where  hope  had  bade  him  reap 
The  glory  of  the  brave. 

"I  cannot  let  thee  go; 

The  ocean  is  our  foe, 

And  these  mad  breakers  throw 

Fresh  terrors  on  the  strand." 
"But  what  of  him  out  there, 
Abandoned  to  despair? 
Has  he  no  mother's  care?" 

Asked  Harro  oar  in  hand. 

Again  she  pleading  cried: 
"Give  o'er  thy  spirit's  pride, 
Come  to  my  lonely  side, 

Nor  perish  in  the  storm." 
In  vain; — the  four  and  he, 
With  sturdy  arm  and  free, 
Sent  through  the  seething  sea 

The  life-boat's  glorious  form. 

They  conquered  wave  and  blast, 
And  safely  clutched  at  last 
The  mast  where  still  clung  fast 

The  wretch  about  to  die; 
When  Harro  then  straightway 
Clomb,  without  pause  or  stay, 

[90] 


To  where  that  lone  one  lay 
All  stark  against  the  sky. 

With  more  than  tender  care 
His  burden  he  did  bear 
Unto  his  comrades  there, 

Who  clove  the  air  with  cheers; 
But  when  they  saw  the  face 
Upturned  to  his  embrace, 
Another  joy  did  lace 

Their  cheeks  with  silent  tears. 

Homeward,  with  heartening  song, 
They  drove  the  boat  along, 
Mid  joys  which  there  did  throng 

Round  perils  greatly  braved; 
And  when  they  neared  the  shore, 
'Twas  Harro  shouted  o'er: 
"Good  mother,  grieve  no  more, 

'Tis  Uwe  we  have  saved." 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  FRENCH 


HYMN  TO  THE  SUN 

(FROM  THE  CHANTICLEER  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND) 
CHANTICLEER  SPEAKS: 

Thee,  who  to  dry  the  tears  of  every  blade  dost 

please, 

Who  butterflies  Greatest  out  of  lifeless  flowers, 
When  shed  their  blooms  Roussillon's  shaken 
almond  trees 

In  breezes  of  the  Pyrenees, 
E'en  as  the  destinies  of  ours, 

Thee  I  adore,  O  Sun!  —  thee  whose  supernal  fire, 
To  consecrate  each  brow,  each  nectar  to  imbue, 
Enters  the  hut  and  blossom  with  divine  desire, 

All  disparate  and  yet  entire, 

Even  as  mother-love  can  do. 

To  thee  I  sing !  —  To  crown  me  as  thy  priest,  oh, 

deign, 
Thou  who  the  washtub  lightest  with  its  suds  of 

blue, 

And  who  on  disappearing  oft  art  fondly  fain 
Against  the  humble  window  pane 
To  dart  thy  lances'  last  adieu. 

The  rectory's  sunflower  turns  in  eagerness  to  thee, 
Thou  burnishest  my  brother  on  the  steeple  high, 

[95] 


And  when  among  the  lindens  steals  thy  mystery, 
Such  flickering,  radiant  discs  we  see, 
To  walk  thereon  we  dare  not  try. 

The  varnished  jug  becomes  enameled  at  thy  call, 
The  flapping  dishcloth  seems  a  flag  of  glory's 

brood, 

The  haycock,  thanks  to  thee,  wears  gold  that 
crowns  it  all, 

And  so  the  hive  —  its  sister  small  — 
Flaunts  golden  splendor  on  its  hood. 

Let  meadows  give  thee  hail,  and  hail  each  fruited 

vine! 
Blest  be  thou  mid  the  grass,  and  at  the  friendly 

door! 

Touch  the  swan's  wing  and  in  the  lizard's  keen  eye 
shine ! 

O  thou  who  drawest  each  splendent  line, 
And  every  detail  lingerest  o'er! 

Thy  twin  and  sombre  sister  thou  dost  silhouette, 
Who  lengthening  lies  at  foot  of  that  where  falls 

thy  light, 

And  then  the  loveliness  is  in  us  doubly  set, 
A  shadow  oft  more  charming  yet 
Than  its  own  object  beauty-dight. 

[96] 


Thee  I  adore,  O  Sun!  —  Thou  giv'st  the  rose  her 
pride, 

The  bush  its  living  God,  the  spring  its  ardent  glow; 

The  woodland's  lowliest  tree  thou  makest  deified !  — 
O  Sun,  without  whom  things  would  bide 
No  more  than  what  we  only  know! 


[97] 


THE  ORCHARD 

(AFTER  EDMOND  ROSTAND) 

The  poem,  of  which  the  following  is  a  translation,  was 
written  by  Edmond  Rostand  and  read  at  a  performance  given 
in  Paris  in  aid  of  the  Actors'  Home,  situated  at  Couilly,  near 
that  city. 

What  orchard's  this  wherein  the  Cid  recites  his 

strain 
With  tremulous  voice  beneath  the  sun's  warm, 

genial  light? 

Where  not  so  eager  now  of  folly  to  complain, — 
Since  whitening  fast  he  sees  the  locks  of 

Celimene,— 
With  leaves  of  living  green  Alceste  his  coat 

makes  bright? 
What  orchard's  this  wherein  the  Cid  recites  his 

strain? 

Its  distances  in  golden  glory  melt  away; 
Smooth-faced  as  some  old  Marquis,  all  the  strollers 

there. 

What  Park  is  this  wherein  thy  soul  of  frolic  play 
— Thy  great  soul  seeming  but  the  trivial  to 

essay!  ...  — 


[98] 


Breathes  deep  the  lovely  landscape's  fresh, 

delicious  air ... 
Beneath  a  sky  whose  golden  glory  melts  away? 

Old  dames  who  seem  to  owe  to  Art  their  aged  air 

Pluck  blooms  where  insects  flash  their  emerald- 
tinted  dyes. 

No  more  the  reeking  den!     No  more  gloom's  dull 
despair ! 

And  everywhere  the  Garden  looking  to  the  skies! 

While  underneath  the  boughs  in  pensive  meekness 
fare 

Old  dames  who  seem  to  owe  to  Art  their  aged  air. 

A  time-worn  shawl  is  draped  as  with  a  princess' 

hand; 

Hernani  buttons  on  a  box-coat  out  of  date; 
The  names  which  light  their  past  incessant  they 

command  .... 
A  Frederick  one  has  heard,  and  one,  Rachel  the 

great. 
And  then  the  trees  become  an  audience  ranged 

in  state, 
Where  time-worn  shawl  is  draped  as  with  a 

princess'  hand. 

Here  sadness  flits  away  like  curtain  upward  rolled, 

[99] 


Nor  in  the  least  are  lost  the  dreams  which 

follow  you. 

You  that  to  us  bore  cups  of  dream  in  days  of  old, 
And,  charmers  of  our  evenings,  now  that  yours 

are  told, 
Why  should  we  not  your  footlights  place 

beneath  the  blue? 
Here  sadness  flits  away  like  curtain  upward  rolled. 

What  wide-spread  orchard's  this  all  filled  with 

revery's  haze 
And  with  comedians  gay,  like  park  by  Watteau 

made? 
Where  wandering  Mascarille,  without  his  mask 

and  blade, 

Dons  now  his  theatre-cloak  as  fancy's  vision  plays, 
When  soft  the  pine-trees  fleck  his  mantle  with 

their  shade? 

What  beauteous  orchard's  this  all  filled  with 

revery's  haze? 

What  beauteous  orchard's  this  a  Moliere  makes 

his  own, 

All  pensive  as  he  feels  the  soil's  deep  love  control 
The  ivy's  arms  around  his  marble  to  be  thrown, 
And  smiling  as  he  sees  Elmire  and  Dona  Sol 


Within  the  arbor  chat  in  kind,  familiar  tone? 
What  beauteous  orchard's  this  a  Moliere  makes 
his  own? 

The  moving  vines  festooned  upon 

This  arbor  have  no  fictive  guise; 

The  pate's  not  from  pasteboard  drawn 

Which  down  the  throat  of  Gringoire  hies! 

Misfortune's  child  no  longer  sighs; 

Leander  now  is  Castellan; 

Stirs  Buridan  while  Scapin  lies — 

The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 

The  villain  now  on  sheep  would  fawn; 
The  lover  every  calyx  tries, 

His  piping  voice  forever  gone 

Yet  on  the  side-scenes  keeps  his  eyes! 
In  lakelet,  which  with  mirror  vies, 
The  Star  delights  to  fondly  scan 
The  twilight  heaven's  reflected  dyes — 
The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 

Don  Cesar  now  has  jacket  on; 
While  Harpagon  his  vice  defies, 


And  redemands  his  miroton;* 

Sweet  Agnes  dreams,  somewhat  more  wise; 

Of  crawfish  Perdican  makes  prize; 

When  tinkle,  tinkle,  rings  Argan, 

To  do  his  will  each  swiftly  flies — 

The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 


ENVOY 

Prince,  princesses,  we  here  devise 
Some  eves  of  golden-tissued  plan, 
And  real  the  sun  that  walks  our  skies! 
The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 

*  Miroton  is  a  dish  of  minced  beef  and  onions. 


[102] 


WHAT  IS  HEARD  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 

(AFTER  VICTOR  HUGO) 

Has  it  so  been  that  you  in  tranquil,  silent  wise, 
Have  pushed  to  mountain's  top  in  presence  of 

the  skies? 
Was  this  on  Southern  banks?  on  shores  of 

Brittany? 

And  at  the  mountain's  foot  did  you  the  ocean  see? 
And  leaning  o'er  the  surge,  and  o'er  immensity, 
In  silent  wise  and  tranquil,  have  you  bent  your 

ear? 
'Tis  this  befalls:  at  least,  one  day  at  dream's 

command 
My  thought  in  eager  flight  had  swooped  above 

a  strand, 
And,  to  the  briny  depths  plunging  from  summit 

sheer, 
On  one  hand  saw  the  sea,  on  the  other  saw  the 

land; 
And  listening  there  I  heard  a  voice  whose  like 

or  peer 
Ne'er  came  from  human  mouth  nor  fell  upon  an 

ear. 

At  first  its  sound  was  full,  confused,  all 
unconfined, 

[103] 


More  vague  than  in  the  tufted  trees  the  sighing 

wind; 
With  piercing  concords  filled,  with  murmurs 

suavely  low; 

Sweet  as  an  evening  song,  as  harsh  as  armors' 

shock 
When  fight's  red  furies  round  the  maddened 

squadrons  flock, 
And  in  the  clarion's  mouths  with  battle's  fierceness 

blow. 

'Twas  music  past  all  thought,  with  tones  divinely 

deep, 
Which,  fluid,  round  the  world  unceasingly  did 

sweep, 
And  in  the  boundless  heavens,  its  waves  fore'er 

renewed, 

Rolled,  in  its  orbit's  greatening,  endless  vastitude, 
To  lowest  depths  profound,  until  its  flow  sublime 
Was  lost  in  dark  with  Number,  Form,  and  Space, 

and  Time! 

As  with  another  air,  dispersed,  outreaching  wide, 
The  globe's  whole  body  felt  the  hymn's  eternal 

tide; 

And  as  the  world  is  wafted  in  its  airy  sea, 
So  now  'twas  wafted  in  this  mighty  symphony. 


Then  the  ethereal  harps  swept  o'er  my  pensive 

soul, 

Lost  in  their  voice  as  in  great  ocean's  surging  roll. 
And  quickly  I  discerned,  clouded  and  dissonant, 
Two  voices  in  this  voice  each  with  the  other  blent, 
O'er  flowing  all  the  earth  unto  the  firmament, 
That  hymned  together  there  the  universal  chant; 
And  in  their  roar  profound  mine  ear  caught  every 

stave, 
As  one  two  currents  sees  which  cross  beneath  the 

wave. 

One  came  the  waters  o'er:  blest  hymn!  a 

glory-song ! 
It  was  the  voice  of  waves  that  spake  in  happy 

throng ; 
The  other  from  the  land  which  rose  where  now  we 

are 
Was  sad;  it  was  men's  murmur  rising  near  and 

far; 

And  in  this  diapason,  sounding  night  and  day, 
Each  billow  had  its  voice,  each  man  his  separate 

lay. 

But,  as  I've  said,  the  Ocean,  vast,  magnificent, 
A  mild  and  joyous  voice  through  endless  spaces 
sent; 

[105] 


Like  harp  in  Zion's  fanes  it  burst  in  swelling  note, 
And  with  creation's  praise  song  filled  his  raptured 

throat. 

His  music,  borne  by  zephyrs  as  by  gales  that  fly, 
Incessantly  toward  God  in  triumph  mounted  high, 
And  when  each  throbbing  wave,  that  God  alone 

can  quell, 

Had  quired  in  joy  another  rose  in  sounding  swell. 
Like  that  majestic  lion  whom  Daniel  made  his 

guest, 
At  times  the  Ocean's  voice  sank  low  within  his 

breast, 
And  then  I  deemed  I  saw  toward  the  glowing 

West 
Beneath  its  mane  of  gold  the  hand  of  God 

confessed. 

Yet,  nathless,  by  the  side  of  this  so  great  fanfare 
The  other  voice, — like  cry  of  steed  in  maddening 

scare, 
Like  rusted  hinge  of  gate  that  guards  Hell's 

quenchless  fire, 
Like  brazen  bow  drawn  o'er  the  strings  of  iron 

lyre,— 
Ground  harsh;  and  insult,  tears,  anathema,  and 

cries, 
Viaticum,  baptism,  refused  by  him  who  dies, 

[106] 


Mad  curses,  blasphemies,  and  wraths  from  mouths 

that  rave, 

In  human  clamor's  whirling,  all-devouring  wave, 
Passed  by,  as  in  the  vale  where  shuddering 

shadows  cling 
Do  Night's  ill-omened  birds  with  dusky,  hideous 

wing. 
What  was  that  sound  which  made  a  thousand 

echoes  rise? 
Alas!  it  was  the  earth  and  man  all  torn  with  cries. 

Brothers,  of  these  two  voices,  strange  as  ever  sped, 
That  cease  not  though  reborn,  and  cease  not  being 

fled, 

That  with  unending  stroke  the  ear  eternal  shake, 
HUMANITY  in  one,  in  the  other,  NATURE 

spake. 

Thought  brooded  o'er  me,  for  my  faithful  spirit 

then 

Alas!  had  never  yet  attained  to  such  high  ken, 
Nor  had  such  lustrous  light  illumed  my  darksome 

day; 

And  I  considered  long,  turning  at  times  away 
From  that  obscure  abyss  the  billows  hid  from  me 
To  the  other  gulf  that  filled  my  own  immensity. 
And  then  I  asked  myself,  why  is  it  we  are  here, 

[107] 


What  is  this  life  and  what  its  agony  and  tear, 
And  what  the  soul,  and  why  should  any  being  be? 
Why  should  the  Lord,  who  reads  alone  his  book, 

decree 

Eternally  to  blend  in  hymen's  fatal  tie 
The  song  of  nature  with  the  human  race's  cry? 


THE  TOMB  AND  THE  ROSE 

(AFTER  VICTOR  HUGO) 

The  Tomb  said  to  the  Rose:  "Love's  own, 
What  mak'st  thou  of  the  tears  bestrewn 
By  lovely,  dewy  dawn  o'er  thee?" 
The  Rose  said  to  the  Tomb:  "And  pray, 
What  comes  of  that  which  feeds  alway 
Thy  gulf  that  yawns  eternally?" 

Then  said  the  Rose:  "O  sombre  Tomb, 

I  make  of  them  a  rare  perfume 

Where  honey  with  the  amber  lies." 

Then  said  the  Tomb:  "O  plaintive  Flower, 

Of  every  soul  that  feels  my  power 

I  make  an  angel  of  the  skies!" 


[108] 


THE  PELICAN 

(AFTER  ALFRED  DE  MUSSED 

When  the  tired  pelican  returns  from  his  long 

quest 
Unto  his  lonely  reeds  where  evening  mists  hang 

low, 

His  famished  little  ones  all  shoreward  wildly  go 
On  seeing  him  alight  upon  the  billow's  crest. 
And  then  believing  spoil  is  theirs  to  seize  and 

share, 

With  joyous  cries  they  to  their  father  quickly  fare, 
As  o'er  their  hideous  goitres  shake  their  ravening 

beaks. 
With  dragging  step  and  slow  he  gains  a  towering 

rock, 
Where  shielding  with  his  pendent  wings  his 

starving  flock 

He,  melancholy  fisher,  all  the  sky  bespeaks. 
From  out  his  open  breast  the  blood  makes  copious 

way, 
For  vainly  sought  he  ocean's  depths  on  eager 

wings; 
They  empty  were,  and  even  the  strand  was 

stripped  of  prey; 
And  now  for  nourishment  his  heart  alone  he 

brings. 

[  109] 


Stretched  silently  and  sombre  on  the  lonely  stone, 
The  father  shares  his  deepest  with  the  sons  his 

own; 

And  in  this  love  sublime  he  rocks  his  dolor  till, 
As  he  views  flowing  fast  the  crimson  of  his  breast 
And  sinks  and  staggers  by  this  feast  of  death 

possessed, 

Joy,  tenderness  and  horror  all  his  senses  thrill. 
Mid  this  supreme  surrender  at  each  moment  he 
Is  sickened  with  the  thought  of  long-drawn  agony, 
For  now  he  sees  his  children  will  but  give  him 

death. 
Then  rising  up  he  opes  his  wings  to  ocean's 

breath, 

And  striking  hard  his  heart  with  madly  savage  cry, 
Along  the  night  his  woeful  farewell  notes  so  roll 
That  all  the  sea-birds  from  the  shore  in  terror  fly, 
And  there  the  one  belated,  feeling  death  is  nigh, 
With  dread's  appalling  fears  commends  to  God  his 

soul. 


[no] 


THE  POET 

(AFTER  ALFRED  DE  MUSSED 

O  Muse!  thou  most  insatiate  sprite, 
Do  not  demand  so  much  of  me. 
Man  nothing  on  the  sand  doth  write 
When  blows  the  north-wind  bitterly. 
Time  was  my  youthful  lips  were  stirred 
And  ever  ready  as  a  bird 
With  ceaseless  song  the  hours  to  speed; 
But  I  have  borne  such  pangs  of  fire, 
That  were  the  least  that  I  desire 
Essayed  by  me  upon  my  lyre, 
It  then  would  break  it  as  a  reed. 


[in] 


JACQUES 

(AFTER  BERANGER) 

Dear  Jacques,  I  must  bid  thee  awake: 
A  bailiff  round  the  village  steals, 
With  keeper  following  at  his  heels. 
Poor  man,  they  come  the  tax  to  take. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 
Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

Look  out  and  see:  the  night  is  gone; 
Never  before  hast  slept  so  well; 
Thou  know'st  to  old  Remi  to  sell 
One  must  bestir  before  the  dawn. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

We've  not  a  sou!     O  God  of  fate! 
I  hear  him;  how  the  dogs  do  bay; 
He  will  demand  a  whole  month's  pay. 
Ah,  if  the  King  could  only  wait! 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 


[112] 


Oh,  how  the  poor  are  stripped  and  flayed! 
So  crushed  are  we,  our  home  enjoys, 
For  us,  thy  father  and  six  boys, 
Nought  but  my  distaff  and  thy  spade. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up : 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

They  count  that  with  our  wretched  hut 
An  acre's  fourth  is  far  too  much; 
Yet  that  all  hopeless  miseries  touch, 
While  this  by  usury's  scythe  is  cut. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

So  much  of  pain,  of  gains  so  few; — 
When  shall  we  taste  pork  flesh  again? 
High  priced  is  strengthening  food,  and  then, 
High  priced  the  salt  and  sugar,  too. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

A  little  wine  would  courage  bring; 
But  hard  the  laws  for  such  as  we; 
My  dearest,  for  some  drink  for  thee 
Go  sell  at  once  my  wedding  ring. 

["3] 


Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

Couldst  dream  that  thy  good  angel  would 
To  thee  bring  plenty  and  repose? 
Can  rich  ones  feel  taxation's  woes? 
Their  barns  to  all  the  rats  give  food. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 

Here  comes  the  bailiff  of  the  King. 

He  enters!     Heavens!     O  woe  of  woes; 
Thou  speak'st  no  word!     Thou  art  so  pale! 
On  yesterday  I  heard  thee  wail, 
From  whom  before  no  murmur  rose. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 
Here's  the  good  bailiff  of  the  King. 

Her  cries  are  vain:  there  is  no  life. — 
For  him  who  wears  toil's  thorny  crown 
Death  is  a  pillow  soft  as  down. 
Good  people,  pray  ye  for  his  wife. 

Get  up,  my  Jacques,  get  up: 
Here's  the  good  bailiff  of  the  King. 


FIFTY  YEARS 

(AFTER  BERANGER) 

What  mean  these  flowers?     Is  it  my  fete? 
No;  this  bouquet  now  comes  to  say, 
That  half  a  century  on  my  head 
Is  rounded  and  complete  to-day. 
How  many  days  fleet  fast  along! 
How  many  moments  fruitless  pass! 
How  many  wrinkles  tell  their  tale! 
I'm  fifty  years.     Alas!     Alas! 

At  such  an  age  we  nothing  hold; 
The  fruit  dies  on  the  sallowing  tree — 
But  some  one  knocks; — yet  open  not: 
My  part  is  ended,  that  I  see. 
I'll  wage  some  doctor  thrusts  his  card, 
Or  'tis  the  Times;  ah,  day  there  was, 
I  would  have  said:  That  is  Lisette. 
I'm  fifty  years.     Alas!     Alas! 

Old  age  is  cursed  with  biting  ills: 
The  gout  is  murder's  willing  tool; 
Blindness  for  us  welds  prison  chains; 
While  at  our  deafness  mocks  the  fool. 
Then  reason,  like  a  feeble  lamp, 


Burns  faint  and  flickering  ere  it  pass. 
O  children,  honor  hoary  age. 
I'm  fifty  years.     Alas!     Alas! 

Heavens!  Here's  Death; — rubbing  his  hands 
With  joyous  glee,  he  comes  apace. 
Tis  gravedigger  that's  at  my  door; 
Farewell,  good  sirs  of  every  race! 
Below,  are  famine,  pest  and  war; 
Above,  the  stars'  resplendent  mass. 
Open,  while  God  remains  to  me. 
I'm  fifty  years.     Alas!     Alas! 

But  no; — 'tis  you!  my  welcome  friend, 

Sister  of  Charity  of  loves! 

You  draw  my  sleeping  soul  from  out 

The  horrid  thoughts  wherein  it  moves; 

Strewing  the  roses  of  your  youth, 

As  does  the  Spring,  where'er  you  pass, 

And  sweetening  all  an  old  man's  dreams. 

I'm  fifty  years.     Alas!     Alas! 


[116] 


ADIEU 

(AFTER  BERANGER) 

Dear  France,  all  things  announce  that  now  I 

die. 

Mother  adored,  farewell.     Thy  name,  blest  so, 
Shall  be  the  last  my  lips  will  ever  sigh. 
Has  any  Frenchman  loved  thee  more?     Ah,  no! 
I  sang  of  thee  ere  I  had  learned  to  read; 
And  when  Death  falls  on  me  with  weapon  fell 
I'll  sing  of  thee  till  my  last  breath  be  freed. 
For  so  much  love  give  me  one  tear.    Farewell. 

When  those  ten  Kings,  in  impious  triumph  bound, 
With  war's  dread  cars  o'er  thy  torn  body  pressed, 
Their  bandeaus  gave  me  lint  for  many  a  wound 
Which  my  fond  hand  with  healing  balsam 

dressed. 

Heaven  bids  thy  waste  with  fruitage  to  be  grown; 
The  ages  will  have  cause  of  thee  to  tell; 
For  thy  great  thought  on  all  the  world  is  sown, 
With  man's  Equality  for  sheaf.     Farewell. 

Half-couched  my  body  in  the  tomb  I  see. 
Ah,  come  as  help  to  them  who  love  me  true. 
'Tis  owing,  France,  to  that  poor  dove  who,  free 


To  wing  thy  field,  no  spoil  of  it  e'er  knew. 

That  to  thy  sons  my  prayer  may  be  made  known, 

When  I  already  list  God's  sounding  knell, 

I  have  held  up  my  tomb's  enclosing  stone. 

My  arm  is  wearied  out;  it  falls.     Farewell. 


FAREWELL  TO  LIFE 

AT  PARIS,  1778. 
(AFTER  VOLTAIRE) 

Farewell! — the  country  I  go  to 
Still  holds  my  late  dear  father  yet; 
My  friends,  farewell  fore'er  to  you 
Who  may  for  me  bear  some  regret. 
Laugh,  enemies,  for  so  to  do 
Will  pay  the  usual  requiem  debt. 
Still,  some  day  you  may  feel  concern: 
For  when  to  darksome  shores  consigned, 
Your  works  you  there  would  seek  to  find, 
On  you  the  laugh  will  have  its  turn. 
When  on  the  stage  of  human  life 
A  man  can  play  his  part  no  more, 
On  leaving,  all  the  air  is  rife 
With  hisses  to  his  exit  door. 
I've  seen  in  their  last  malady 
Full  many  a  one  of  differing  states: 
Old  bishops,  aged  magistrates, 


Old  courtesans,  in  agony. 

In  vain,  all  ceremoniously, 

Together  with  its  little  bell 

Came  sacred  gear  of  sacristy; 

Vainly  the  priest  anointed  well 

Our  friend  in  his  extremity; 

The  public  laughed  with  malice  fell; 

A  moment  satire  joyed  to  dwell 

On  all  his  life's  absurdity; 

Then  even  his  name  no  one  could  tell — 

The  farce  had  reached  finality. 

And  now  my  utmost  bound  I  own, 

What  man  needs  less  compassion's  tear? 

'Tis  he  alone  knows  nought  of  fear, 

Who  lives  and  dies  to  fame  unknown. 


TO  A  DEAD  POET 

(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

Thou  whose  delighted  eye  roamed  eagerly  and  free 
From  hues  divine  to  forms  in  strength  immortal 

grown, 
And  from  the  fleshly  things  to  the  star-splendored 

zone, 
In  that  dark  night  which  seals  thy  lids  peace  be  to 

thee. 

To  see,  to  hear,  to  feel?     Breath,  dust  and  vanity. 
To  love?    That  golden  cup  has  but  the  bitter 

known. 
Thou'rt  like  some  wearied  God  who  leaves  his 

altars  lone, 
To  mingled  be  with  matter's  vast  immensity. 

Upon  thy  mute  grave  where  thy  mouldering  body 

lies 
Whether  or  no  the  tears  are  poured  from 

sorrowing  eyes, 
Whether  thy  banal  age  forget  thee  or  acclaim, 

I  envy  thee  thy  silent,  darksome  bed  below, 
Forever  freed  from  life  and  never  more  to  know 
Man's  horror  of  his  own  existence  and  the  shame. 

[  120] 


SOLAR  HERCULES 

(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

O  pang-born  Tamer  who  as  swaddled  infant  killed 
The  Night's  fell  Dragons!     O  thou  Warrior, 

Lion-Heart, 
Who  pierced  the  baneful  Hydra  with  thy  burning 

dart 
Where  poisonous  mist  and  mire  their  livid  horrors 

spilled ; 
And  who,  with  flawless  sight,  of  old  saw  Centaurs 

start 
At  many  a  cliff's  sharp  edge  and  wheel  with 

rearing  breast! 

Of  all  the  genial  Gods  the  eldest,  fairest,  best! 
O  purifier  King,  who  through  thy  glorious  days, 
Made,  like  so  many  torches,  from  the  East  to 

West, 

The  sacrificial  fire  on  every  summit  blaze!  . 
Thy  golden  quiver's  void,  the  Shade's  at  last  thy 

goal. 

Hail  glory  of  the  Air!     All  vainly  dost  thou  tear 
With  thy  convulsive  hands,  where  flames  in  rivers 

roll, 
The  bloody  clouds  which  wreathe  thy  pyre  divine, 

and  there 
In  the  empurpled  wind  thou  yieldest  up  thy  soul. 


THE  CONDOR'S  SLEEP 

(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

Beyond  the  Cordilleras'  stairs  that  steeply  wind, 
Beyond  the  eagle's  haunts  in  mist-enshrouded  air, 
And  higher  than  the  cratered,  furrowed  summits 

where 

The  boiling  flood  of  lava  rages  unconfined, 
His  pendent  pinions  tinct  with  spots  of  crimson 

dye, 
The  great  bird  silent  views,  with  indolent,  dull 

stare, 

America  and  space  outreaching  boundless  there, 
And  that  now  sombre  sun  which  dies  in  his  cold 

eye. 
Night  rolls  from  out  the  East,  where  savage 

pampas  lie 

Beneath  the  tier  on  tier  of  peaks  in  endless  line; 
It  Chili  lulls,  the  shores,  the  cities'  roar  and  cry, 
The  vast  Pacific  sea,  and  horizon  all  divine. 
The  silent  continent  its  close  embraces  hide: 
On  sands  and  hills,  in  gorges,  on  declivities, 
And  on  the  heights,  now  swell,  in  widening 

vortices, 

The  heavy  flood  and  flow  of  its  high-rolling  tide. 
Upon  a  lofty  peak,  alone,  like  spectre  grim, 


[  122  ] 


Bathed  in  a  light  that  dyes  with  crimson  all  the 

snow, 
He  waits  this  direful  sea  which  threats  him  as  a 

foe. 

It  comes,  it  breaks  in  foam,  then  dashes  over  him. 
As  in  the  unsounded  depths  the  Southern  Cross 

now  looms 

Upon  the  sky's  vast  shore  a  pharos-glowing  light, 
His  rattling  throat  speaks  joy,  he  proudly  shakes 

his  plumes, 

His  sinewy,  bare  neck  he  lifts  and  stretches  tight; 
To  raise  himself  he  gives  the  hard  snow  lashing 

stings ; 
Then  with  a  raucous  cry  he  mounts  where  no 

winds  are; 
And  from  the  dark  globe  far,  far  from  the  living 

star, 
In  the  icy  air  he  sleeps  on  grand,  outspreading 

wings. 


[123] 


THE  EVENING  OF  THE  BATTLE 

(AFTER  ALOYS  BLONDEL) 

Some  poplars  ranged  in  solemn  row 

The  landscape's  farthest  boundary  hold, 

Where,  in  the  fitful  sunset-glow, 

The  foliaged  masses  gleam  with  gold 

To  the  horizon's  vague,  blue  zone, 

Fast  fading  in  the  distant  haze. 

Below,  a  smoke  uprises  lone. 

What  peaceful  calm  the  plain  conveys 

Where  twilight  spreads  her  darkening  pall; 

So  peaceful,  so  consenting  all. 

A  bell  just  rang  from  out  the  monastery  near; 
Nor  earth  nor  soul  now  lists  the  plangent  clamor 
here. 

Thou  comest,  friendly  Autumn,  sweetly  to  allure, 
Thy  hands,  like  as  a  sister's,  filled  with  peace 

secure ; 

Thou  comest  to  inter,  in  thy  fete  robes  complete, 
The  bodies  couched  upon  the  field  of  their  defeat 
Of  these  young,  beauteous  ones  who  strove  without 

a  fear, 
No  one  will  come  to  weep  the  lonely  tombs  anear. 


Their  number,  even  their  names,  will  in  the  future 

fade, 
Nor  will  it  know  the  hope  that  led  them  to  the 

shade, 
The  awful  shade  of  Death  which  nothing  can 

abate. 
What  matters  it  we  vaunt  or  we  deplore  their 

fate— 
These  mute  ones,  overthrown  in  all  their  armor's 

pride, 
Who  had  a  heart-born  dream  of  which  they 

grandly  died. 

What  matters  if  their  bodies  lie  beneath  no  stone, 
Seeing  that  in  their  dream  immortal  things  were 

sown. 

Autumn,  give  them  thy  crown  endued 

With  saffrons  pale  where  griefs  abide, 

And  with  thy  foliage  purple-hued; 

Oh,  thou  canst  spill  o'er  them  the  pride 

And  glory  of  the  riches  born 

Of  thy  ensanguined  twilights! — They, 

Whom  now  the  world  here  leaves  forlorn 

Were  all  so  young,  so  valiant  aye. 

For  them  low  lying  at  our  feet 

How  thy  hand  weaves  the  winding-sheet. 


MURMURINGS  IN  THE  DARKNESS 

(AFTER  FERNAND  GREGH) 

This  eve  a  wind  divine  is  stirring  in  the  trees; 
Its  long-drawn  sighing  fills  the  lonely,  sombrous 

Park; 
Nought  but  the  wind  one  hears,  nought  but  the 

gloom  one  sees, 
While  shadow-murmurings  seem  at  times  to  bid  us 

hark. 

'Tis  like  a  rambling  stream  in  eddy  vaguely 

tossed 
Beneath  the  sky  where  gleams  a  lone  star's 

emerald  light; 

It  draws  anear,  then  fades,  till  in  the  distance  lost, 
And  at  the  window  feigns  to  pass  before  our  sight. 

It  bathes  each  thing  like  water  fragrant,  crisp  and 

sweet, 

Like  airy,  magic  waves  that  lightly  flow  at  will, 
So  that  in  all  the  world  no  leaf  or  moss  could 

meet 
Its  tender  touch  and  not  voluptuously  thrill. 

'Tis  languor's  all  and  ardor's,  all  that  joy  can  own, 
[126] 


With  all  that  dreams,  glides,  faints,  or  noiseful 

passes  by; 

'Tis  like  the  silk's  delicious,  softly-rustling  tone, 
Or  like  the  nighttime's  tremor,  dumb  with  ecstasy. 

In  truth,  amid  the  dismal  depths  profound  we 

mark 
Its  warm,  mysterious  wine  elate  the  heart  and 

brain, 
Something  of  Heaven  itself  at  times  we  dare  to 

feign, 
Something  all  vast,  august; — yet  vain,  and  ever 

vain. 

It  is  as  though  a  sigh  of  God  filled  all  the  dark. 


THE  AXE 

(AFTER  HENRI  DE  REGNIER) 

Listen.     Upon  the  stones  the  icy  wind  full  drear 
Makes  slowly,  surely  sharp—workman  no  eye  can 

see — 
Its  norther's  bills  and  scythes  as  keen  as  steel  can 

be. 
Listen.     'Tis  Time's  dread  step  that  on  the  road  we 

hear. 

Listen.    Afar  e'en  now  the  flowers  are  stripped  and 

sere; 
The  neighboring  mead's  a-cold;  and  this  majestic 

tree 
At  breath  so  murderous  shakes  and  shudders 

f  earsomely ; 
While  trickles  drop  by  drop  its  Dryad's  life-blood 

dear. 

The  woodmen,  binding  bark  and  fagots,  wend  their 

way, 
Alas!  thy  towering  stature  and  thy  strength  to 

slay; 
Thy  own  shade  marks  the  hour  for  thee  to  be  laid 

low; 


[128] 


And  when  some  autumn  eve  is  proud  to  see 

thee  die 

Amid  thy  golden  limbs  that  all  dismembered  lie, 
Then  calmly,  grandly  fall  beneath  the  axe's  blow. 


ON  A  STATUE  BY  CONSTANTIN 
MEUNIER  OF  A  MINE'S  OLD  HORSE 

AFTER  GERARD  HARRY) 

Before  thee  neither  bronze  nor  marble  bright 
Has  ever  deigned  its  prestige  to  declare, 
As  to  the  chariot's  horse,  when  called  to  dare 
He  leaps,  all  drunk  with  space,  in  sovran  flight. 

Or  who,  with  victor  charging  in  the  fight, 
His  bloody  mane  wild  streaming  in  the  air, 
And  fiercely  neighing,  for  his  own  grand  share 
Dies  in  the  sun  on  battle's  topmost  height. 

But  thou,  with  spirit  humanly  divine, 

Hast  made  thy  home  the  bottom  of  the  mine, 

Its  worn  and  wretched  heroes  to  exalt. 

Fellow  of  slaves,  thou  gaunt,  thou  faithful  soul, 

Man  offers  thee,  in  place  of  aureole, 

His  misery's  horror  and  the  tomb's  black  vault. 

[  129] 


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